


stop me if you think you've heard this one before

by hupsoonheng



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Bullying, Dubious Consent, Dysphoria, Gender Dysphoria, Homophobic Language, Humanstuck, M/M, Minor Drug Use, New York City, Sexual Harassment, Suicidal Thoughts, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-15
Updated: 2013-12-11
Packaged: 2017-12-08 14:18:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 19
Words: 94,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/762293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hupsoonheng/pseuds/hupsoonheng
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(inspired by a certain popular davekat fic i've seen circulating a lot)</p><p>karkat vantas is tall, fat, awkward, and self-loathing—the perfect target for any aspiring young bully, and there's no shortage of those in high school. dave strider is a new transfer student from a shitty zone school with a lot of bravado, and it looks like he's set to be karkat's umpteenth bully. not that dave knows that. </p><p>(and a second note: this is NOT a story about forgiving your abuser)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> god i hope that wasn't a stupid summary i just want people to read this fic so if i'm a little vague in the summary it's for that reason
> 
> anyway i thought i would try my hand at a high school au because the thought of me doing a high school au is hilarious?? and also i wanted to try a davekat

“Yo, he's coming.”

You hear them before you even turn the corner; neither of them are exactly subtle, although in different ways. You slow down and grit your teeth, wishing your asshole friend would choose some better company or at least agree to meet you elsewhere, but more than that right now you wish you could speed up time and get this ordeal over with that much faster. 

Gamzee leans against the glass of the bus shelter, a twisty little cigarette dangling from his long brown fingers. You're pretty sure it's a cigarette, anyway, given that you don't think even he's dumb enough to smoke pot right outside the school when both security guards and the NYPD are swarming the block. He nods your way in greeting with a sleepy smile, saluting you with his cigarette. He's the one you're here for. 

Next to him is Dave Strider, a fine example of Gamzee's shitty taste in friends. Both his skin and his hair are the color of corn silk, not unlike yours—you share the trait of albinism, but not much more. He's a mid year transfer from Brandeis, but the one time you tried to make fun of him for it with _Moving on up, are you?_ he just laughed and said yeah, to the East Side. Nothing you could ever say would faze him. 

“Yo, tall white and angry,” Dave says, raising a hand. His face is impassive, especially when he's wearing these dweeby shades he calls aviators, despite being nothing of the kind. “How many feet you grown in the night?”

“As many as you shrank,” you retort with a hot face, which just makes him laugh a little. Until last year you were 5’8”, a little on the short side but a decent height nonetheless. Then suddenly you shot up another six inches, but your body didn't get lean with the rapid growth like your dad kept promising it would. Dave, on the other hand, barely measures 5’6”. Or so you figure, anyway; you definitely don't spend an inordinate amount of time looking at Dave Strider. Definitely not. 

“You never stop being funny, man, I want you to send me some free tickets when you make it big on the comedy circuit. I believe in you, Vantas.” Dave holds out his fist like he wants you to bump it, and you just stare at it. After a few quiet moments he drops it, saying, “Harsh, dude. But that's what I like about you, man, you know? I gotta prove myself worthy, right?” 

You have a million retorts bubbling up inside you, so much so that there’s just a fucking bottleneck and nothing comes out at all, just your fists clenching around the straps of your bookbag and your face getting redder and redder. You look so fucking stupid. 

Gamzee finally catches on that maybe you’re done here, and he turns to Dave with his hand up. “We gotta bounce,” he says, giving a jerk of his thumb toward one of the more aggro security guards that’s coming your way. Gamzee dropped out two years ago, and this one security guard gets angrier than Gamzee’s willing to risk dealing with if he sees hair or hide of him near school grounds. Dave nods and slaps his hand in to clasp Gamzee’s, and then he’s finally fucking leaving. 

You head toward the Wendy’s near school, which is full of other students, especially right after last period’s let out, but Gamzee has an obsession with their sweet and sour sauce that no other fast food joint can satisfy. He’s tall, too, only shorter than you by an inch or two, but unlike you he’s a twig, filled out here and there with the flab of an occupational slacker. You think he could be really handsome if he bathed more often. 

Gamzee sits down with a tray full of food and way too many little cups of sweet and sour sauce, plus a couple mustard honeys because he knows you like those. You haven’t bought a thing because like fuck are you gonna get caught eating in public, especially in such close quarters with people you consider your eternal enemies. Gamzee passes you a thing of fries anyway, and you sneak one into the honey mustard and into your mouth every so often. 

“I still don’t fucking understand why you hang out with Dave fucking Strider, of all people,” you say as you time how long you have until you can allow yourself another fry in sight of judgmental eyes. “Is that even his real name? That sounds like a made-up name to me.” 

“The fuck do I look like, the FBI?” Gamzee replies around a mouthful of burger. He’s got three. LIfe isn’t fair. “He told me his name’s Dave Strider, so that’s what I call him. Ain’t hard.” He thrusts his chin at your fries. “You don’t like fries no more?” 

“Of course I like fries,” you retort, but you still don’t touch them. “You dodged my real question, jackass.” 

“Dude’s cool.” Gamzee shrugs as he wipes his mouth against the back of his arm like there’s not a stack of napkins on his tray. “You know he’s just trying to be friendly, right?” 

“I think maybe you _think_ that,” you mutter, finally picking up a fry and swiping it through one of Gamzee’s cups of ketchup. “All he ever does is get under my skin.” 

“Listen, man, you got the wrong idea about Dave,” Gamzee says as he gets out of his seat. “He makes fun of my taste in music like, basically all the time, doesn’t mean he ain’t my friend.” 

“Just where the hell are you going?” you say, trying to keep the panic out of your voice as he turns away from the table. 

“To piss, bro, keep your shirt on. Watch my shit.” And he just walks away like it’s nothing. 

The vultures descend almost immediately, taking up all three available seats at the table and crowding around the edges. They’re all from your school, naturally, and they don’t especially like to mess with you when Gamzee’s around because it would mean looking for a new, cheap dealer, but you’re their favorite target. 

“Hey Vantas,” one of them says, the one sitting in Gamzee’s seat. His name is Brandon, one of a handful of white boys that attends your high school. “How’s that diet going? Kinda falling off the wagon here, aren’t you?” And he picks up one of Gamzee’s chicken nuggets, taking a big bite. You hate that he’s the ringleader because for fuck’s sake, he’s at least a year younger than you, and you should be able to tell this whippersnapper to know his place. The trouble with that is that he’s got at least five other boys with him—all younger than you, of course. Of course. It doesn’t help that they all take weight room for their gym class, so even with all of them shorter and younger than you, you’re shamefully afraid of them. 

“It’s Gamzee’s food,” you growl, “and you should get out of here, before he comes back.” It’s a desperate tactic. 

“Or what, he’ll sit here and do nothing?” Brandon laughs. 

“Maybe you’ll lose your pot connection, and I bet a bunch of intellectual giants like you would just keel over and die getting deprived of your main source of entertainment.” You congratulate yourself on keeping your cool. 

“Pot what?” Brandon puts on a look of mock horror, looking around at his cohorts. “Gentlemen, do we know anything about any marijuana? The biggest priority in my life,” he continues as he sits up and puts one hand over his heart, “is my grades, and my community! And nothing less.” 

“I’m so convinced,” you say dryly, trying to keep your sweaty palms flat on your thighs in the hopes of drying them off. 

“Hey, look, I’m really sorry about what I said about your weight,” Brandon says with a big cartoonish pout, and around him the other boys nod slowly, like he’s such a good person repenting like this. “Just, you know, I was with your mom last night, and she asked me to check up on you!” 

Your fingers clutch at the fronts of your pants, your molars grinding. You can already feel the heat radiating from your own face. 

“We know that’s why you came out looking the way you did, Vantas, it’s that your whore mom loves that white cock!” The entire table of them explodes into laughter, and Brandon accepts high fives from pretty much any boy that can reach over to him. You’re yelling _Shut up!_ over and over again but they’re ignoring you, not that you can really be heard over the din they’re making. 

You can see the manager coming over, and Gamzee’s not back from the bathroom yet. Brandon is saying something else about your mother, and as you screw your eyes shut you can feel unfriendly hands clapping you on the back like you’re in on the joke rather than the joke itself. You know the manager will only see you as part of the problem and try to kick you out too. 

Gamzee gets to the table first, scooping up his jacket and bookbag in one motion. “Come on, Karkat, we got better places to be than hanging out with trash,” he says, looking down coldly at Brandon as he drops your fries and honey mustards into the paper bag. He leaves his own food—wait, no, he takes the two burgers left because they’re easy to grab. Gamzee Makara can’t pass up greasy snacks. “Let’s go.” He grabs as many of the sweet and sours as he can fit in one hand as he sweeps away from the table. 

You shrug on your coat awkwardly as you jog after Gamzee, and swing your bookbag on as you head down the stairs. “We need to find somewhere else to eat after school,” you say as you hit the sidewalk. Your coat is too short in the sleeves and doesn’t cover your hips enough. “They’re _always_ there.” 

“Hell no, I ain’t gettin’ kicked outta the only source of my favorite food just because some other dudes got a problem with your coloration!” Gamzee says, indignant and loud. “Man, you’re bigger than them, you could probably knock them out cold! That Brandon kid’s a goddamn sophomore!” 

“Junior,” you correct, glaring at your toes. 

“Whatever, I ain’t know what goes on inside that hell-building. I’m a free man,” he snorts. “Point is, don’t be lettin’ others treat you unkindly like that all the time, Karkat! You ain’t deserve it.” 

“You don’t know anything about it,” you choke out as you descend into the subway station. 

“What—man, I don’t mean it like that,” he says, this time following you. “Karkat.” You keep racing down the stairs, not really wanting to leave Gamzee behind, but trying to get across to him how mad you really are. “Karkat!” 

“What?” You stop at the bottom of the stairs. 

“Man, I’m sorry,” he says with a shrug. “I know it’s hard, alright? Next time I won’t leave you alone, bro.” 

“There is no next time,” you say as you fish out your metrocard. “Maybe you should start getting a taste for Subway.” 

Gamzee waits with you for your train first, because he knows it makes you feel less lonely. The ride out to Jackson Heights is fucking interminable, and he can’t come with you for even a part of it. You vacillate between not giving a fuck if people can hear you listening to Christina Aguilera and feeling paranoid that it’s leaking out of your cheap earbuds, everybody around you judging you for it. You tend toward the latter. 

When you get home nobody’s there, your older brother probably out at some pretentious poetry reading, your dad at work. You lock the door behind you with a sigh, and head into your room to just drop your bag and outerwear all in one pile by your desk. Now you don’t have to give a shit what anybody thinks of your music, and you put on some nice soothing Morrissey. 

The difference between Brandon and Dave Strider, you muse as you shuffle your pants off, is that one of them you hate in a very straightforward way—he’s a complete dick who you would love to see get hit by two trucks coming from opposite directions at the same time. Preferably 18 wheelers breaking the speed limit. 

The other, though, you find inexplicably hot. You judge from his features—and know because his non-albinistic twin sometimes drops by after school from LaGuardia—that he’s actually black, albinism aside, and you wonder if he gets “white bastard” jokes too. You wonder if maybe he wasn’t such an asshole, you two could understand each other. 

You have this recurring daydream that Strider realizes what a jackass he’s been, and that he stands there and listens to you monologue about what a supreme dickhole he is, how dumb he actually is, how he seriously needs to shut up the majority of the time with his stupid rambling bullshit. When you finally finish the monologue he begs your forgiveness, prostrates himself as he agrees that he’s stupid, that you’re the smartest person he’s ever met, and he’s so, so very sorry he was ever mean to you. 

You lie back on your bed, trying to keep your hands at your sides. The next part of the daydream is always riddled with disgust and guilt, because that’s when Dave parts his pouty pink lips under his cute flat nose and asks if he can say sorry by sucking your cock. Just thinking about it, even in passing, makes your own dick twitch in your briefs and you clench your fists. You’re not giving in. 

But daydream Dave asks again, begs for the head of your dick on his tongue, kneels in front of you and takes his shirt off. In school you always think you see a hint of pecs under his shirt so in your mind, you imagine that yeah, he’s got a pretty lean upper body, with little pink nipples to match his lips. Not like you. Not like you and your ugly misshapen stretched out body, literally stretched until you’ve been scarred with long angry red lightning bolts that take forever to fade. 

That’s almost enough to kill your boner and let you forget about this daydream, but daydream Dave insists he doesn’t care, and in reality your hand finally slips into your underwear as Dave swallows your cock in your mind. 

After you come you change your underwear in your usual post-orgasmic fugue of disgust with yourself, wash your hands with scalding water, yank on pajama bottoms that are have started to pinch your fat hips lately because you must have gained more weight, and settle into your homework like a good little boy who didn’t just jack off to one of his bullies. 

You hate Dave Strider, and that’s final.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> and now for dave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyyyy i hope this isnt as poorly written as i was feeling it was when i started writing it i feel ambivalent about it haha
> 
> but hey fast updates so who cares!! i hope anyway
> 
> i really care about this fic so please leave thoughts and opinions and stuff thx

Your walk home from the train station tends to be kind of circuitous. It’s not that you’re afraid of anyone—you’re Dave Strider, and your big bro has made sure you’re skilled enough in martial arts to take care of yourself on the street without having to carry a weapon. But you like to walk home in peace like anybody else, and certain people on a certain block like to disturb your peace at this time of day. 

You come home to an empty apartment; Bro works for the MTA, and your twin tends to get caught up in the kind of extracurriculars you could never get into. You like your siblings, but you like having the place to yourself, too, and you head into the room you share with your sister, throwing your shit in the corner. It kind of lands on her side of the room and with a sigh you pick it up to try again, because as messy as her side is, she gets mad about anything of yours ending up over there. Bad things have happened to your possessions when she’s found them in the past. 

The first thing you do is take off your shirt and peel off your binder, which comes off as a rolled-up hoop of spandex. You’re grateful Bro bought it for you, no lie, but this shit is as bad as wearing a bra sometimes. You pull your shirt on again, in case someone suddenly comes home, and you crawl onto your bed to pull your laptop out from under your pillow. 

Nested inside a million subfolders in your iTunes sidebar is a playlist called _dance your ass off_ ; you used to make all these convoluted, long titles for your playlist but you got tired of them always ending in ellipses for being too long, so you’ve been trying to curb that urge. In your nightstand is a mini speaker that you plug into the side of the laptop, and then you click the first song and hit enter. 

As Cakes da Killa starts playing you close the door to the bedroom and wedge a folding chair under the doorknob. Your hips twitch from side to side as you yank off your shirt again, and strip down naked. You avoid the mirror until you’ve pulled a cute pair of panties out of the drawer and on over your ass, and put on an almost-matching bra. 

From under a mess of cables you keep in a shoebox under your bed, you get out a tube of lipstick and some hoop earrings. You put in the earrings first—your parents got your ears pierced when you were a baby—and pull a compact mirror you stole from your sister out next so you can put on the lipstick without having to look at yourself just yet. 

You rub the carpet imprint out of your knees as you get up, and stand in front of the full-length mirror that belongs to both of you. The song is almost over, so you just wait for the next one to start up as you spread your feet and sink your hips. You pop your ass out as RuPaul starts talking, and raise your hands over your head to balance as you start shaking it. And yeah, you watch yourself twerk. 

The truth about your siblings is that they’ve been really open, supportive, accepting, all of that, since you told them to start treating you like a dude. It didn’t take much convincing, although for a while Rose wouldn’t stop asking you questions about how you even “decided” it. (She stopped after you snapped at her about it.) Bro put his big ol’ Legal Adult signature on the papers to get your name changed to something more suited to you, got you more than one binder so they’d last a little longer, only calls you your old government name when he’s sleepy (or drunk, which doesn’t happen as often as it used to). 

But you know there’s this script you’re supposed to be following, or at least you’ve gathered as much on the internet, those occasional specials on TV where parents cry about how hard it is to have a transgender child, and how they’re trying not to mess up little Stephanie-cum-Stephan’s pronouns, but didn’t they raise a little girl? You’re supposed to hate dolls, eschew dresses and makeup. And yeah, you don’t play with dolls, but that’s because you’re too old for them. You’re supposed to want to chop your tits off, and sometimes, yeah. You do. You don’t wanna have to deal with your own self and your own stupid feelings about shit, you just wanna be another dude who doesn’t have to deal with bigger problems than wondering whether you wanna date dudes or ladies, maybe both, maybe something beyond those boundaries. 

But shit, you like how you look in this tacky zebra print bra, and in your head you’re sure it doesn’t make you a goddamn girl. You just don’t know if you can call yourself a cross-dresser when nobody would think of you that way if you went outside in a dress. Your biggest fear is someone walking in on you like this, acting like the girl you aren’t, and _Were you just fucking around when you made me shell out for a goddamn name change, for all those sports bra things for dudes?_

Just the thought puts a shiver of fright in you that fucks you up and now your ass is off-beat, literally. You fucking hate thinking, wanna just rip your brain out bare-handed and put it aside as you dance mindlessly in a pool of your own blood. It’d be worth it. Then you wouldn’t have to think about who the fuck would wanna touch up on you when everything you do makes you look like a lying sack of shit that can’t pick between being a boy and a girl, just an alien monster with no melanin and no immutable truths. 

So you do the next best thing and just change the track, some old-ass Calle 13 that’s about nothing but bodies and sweat so you dance until you’re nothing but a sweaty body, no need for other people. You stop getting all poetic in your head, empty of all thought until you’re so tired you collapse on your bed. 

“Dave?” you hear ring out from the front of the apartment just as you start to get your breath back, and you panic. Rose is home, and you have maybe ten seconds before she gets back here to rattle the doorknob. “Do you ever not blast your music?” 

You leave the folding chair under the knob as you tear your bra off and throw it in the closet. Your shirt goes on first, then Rose is trying the door just like you knew she would. “Dave, I swear to god, learn to jack off in the bathroom like the rest of us.” You almost fall over hopping back into your pants, and just as you finish buttoning them you kick the chair away from the door, followed immediately by sitting down on your bed hard and hissing in pain. You could have found a more graceful way to handle that. 

“Oh, am I allowed in my own bedroom now?” Rose says, voice dry and eyes hooded as she steps over the chair. “How kind of you. I am truly floored by your generosity.” 

“I wasn’t decent,” you say with a big shrug as you try to shake off the soreness in your big toe and close your laptop. 

“Isn’t masturbation weird for you, anyway?” Rose says as she dumps her bag on her bed and takes a seat at the only desk in the room. She has a laptop of her own, but everyone agreed she deserved the desk more because she actually does homework and goes to a good school. You’re out of Brandeis, getting your grades way up in the last year as part of your deal with Bro to “reboot” your identity, but you wouldn’t put your new school anywhere near the same league as Fiorello H. LaGuardia. “I was doing some reading—”

“Maybe you should stick to your studying like a good little girl, how about that?” you say as you pull yourself further up on your bed. You glance down and—shit, your box of cables is still out, although at least you put the lipstick and compact back inside. Wait—fuck— 

“I’m just trying to be a good sister,” Rose sighs as she opens her laptop. Thankfully she’s staying faced away from you and you take the earrings out as quickly as you can. There’s no way she didn’t notice hoop earrings the width of your palm hanging from your lobes, but maybe this way you can at least deflect shit and accuse her of calling you a girl or something. It’s not exactly fair play, but you’re more interested in your self-preservation. You shove the earrings under your pillow. “I don’t want to say something ignorant.” 

“Look, you know I appreciate you, right? You and your giant-ass brain and how you go outta your way to be smart about literally everything.” You sit up and press your tits flat (flattish, they’re too huge to actually flatten out all the way) against your thighs as you pull your legs up. “But don’t talk about my junk, come on. Let’s not do the twincest thing, Rosie.” 

“You’re disgusting,” she groans, but the way she throws a pillow at your face shows you she’s not all that upset. 

“So this is mine now, right? Since it’s on my side of the room?” you ask, but her only response is to do her homework, which means the fun is over, so you’d better find some other way to entertain yourself. You pull on headphones and swap them for the mini speaker, which goes back into the nightstand. 

 

TG: paging john egbert  
TG: egbert to the computer  
TG: this is not a drill  
EB: i was getting a sandwich, that’s still legal right?  
TG: nope consider yourself under arrest citizen  
TG: insert miranda rights here  
TG: you have the right to remain a negligent friend  
EB: whoa now, we’re throwing around some pretty big accusations here!  
TG: you ever met someone hilarious  
EB: if you’re trying to make me compliment your weird sense of humor, it’s not gonna work.  
TG: nah its this kid at my new school right  
TG: karkat  
TG: dude is fantastic  
EB: what, the stoner?  
TG: what  
TG: no his friend  
TG: i have never met a single person so good at acting mad  
TG: like when i first met him i felt bad because i thought he was getting legit upset at me  
EB: it’s because you’re a dick.  
TG: i know  
TG: but then like his friend the stoner told me hes actually a real chill dude whos good at the humors  
TG: so it turns out hes been just rolling with it  
TG: dude is only 17 and he deserves an oscar already  
EB: so, what, are we talking your ideal husband here?  
TG: oh who the fuck told you  
TG: im gonna be a june bride  
TG: just in time for graduation  
TG: were registered at cb2 because crate and barrel is too expensive for the kind of rabble i hang around  
EB: haha man, i didn’t think you’d make any jokes about being a bride, considering.  
TG: fuck you man how long have you known me  
EB: i’m just saying! whatever.  
EB: would you be into him, though?  
TG: haha hell no dude is probably high maintenance as all heck  
TG: plus as we all know i am king freak of all the freaks  
TG: i mean i think hes like mexican or indian i cant tell but also albino like me  
TG: but we both know thats not the kind of freakitude im talking about here  
EB: dave, come on...  
TG: anyway dude is like twice my height can you imagine how awkward the sex would be  
TG: theres no chemistry anyway hes just like  
TG: blah  
TG: i like how our friendship is shaping up but i dont feel a thing genitals wise  
TG: hes a big blah  
EB: what about the stoner?  
TG: what the fuck is this the bachelor im not giving either of these fuckers a rose  
TG: anyway no gamzee is literally nasty i dont think he knows what a shower even looks like  
TG: id rather let karkat eat my pussy on the first date that let gamzee ever touch me in a non-platonic way  
TG: and nobody is eating my pussy like ever  
EB: i’m... so glad we’re having this discussion.  
EB: why do so many of our conversations turn into talking about your vagina?  
TG: because my pussy clean  
TG: my pussy squeaky  
EB: i think i have homework to do. maybe you should try doing some of that, too?  
TG: booooo  
TG: booooooooooooo  
TG: what the fuck is homework  
EB: bye, dave!  
TG: no im serious help ive never heard of this word its a totally foreign concept  
TG: help me you ruthless bastard  
EB: BYE!! 

 

You look for other shit to do on the internet without John to bug; you’ve known John since you were five, but he’s one of the straightest shooters you’ve ever met. He also took longer than your family to convert to your new name and pronouns, although you think that had something to do with the fact that he tried to ask you out when you were 13 and still trying to be the girl you were expected to be. Talk about awkward. 

With your excuse for why you don’t have your homework already polished and ready for the morning, you head into the living room with your laptop and settle in to watch some terrible TV of the most mindless variety. You’ve got to come up with some new material for Karkat or he’s gonna get bored.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i forgot to add that [here](http://soporhugs.tumblr.com/post/47633451467/okay-so-thanks-to-tumblr-user-davekat-this-went) is dave's playlist, downloadable for your listen-along-able pleasure


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> little does tavros know if he'd been watching the dub he'd be making a direct reference with that first line

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhhh super thanks to kip helping me figure this chapter out and fleshing out the story better! yeah

“I’m a happy little buffalo, and, that’s why I am so good at Rainbow Road,” Tavros says as he wins the Special Cup once and for all—again. “You should try being more zen about it, then maybe you wouldn’t fall off the edges so much.” 

“ _Or_ we could try not playing on the hardest setting, what about that?” you say, tossing aside your controller with a heavy sigh as you’re forced to watch the winning cutscene, Toad having a fucking blast winning his millionth-and-change gold cup. He always picks either Toad or Yoshi. 

“But the challenge is what makes it fun!” Tavros is Mexican, too, or rather he’s _properly_ Mexican because you’re pretty sure your family is originally from Bangladesh. (You don’t really ask your dad because then he talks about it forever and there’s no escape.) He’s also about the shape you would pick to be if you _had_ to be fat; he’s fat with enormous strong shoulders and arms that are just fucking natural to him, and a better height too at maybe 5’9”. He could be a wrestler or a football player if he weren’t so disinclined toward physical activity. His real name is Téodoro, but he only gets called that by his parents when he’s in trouble. “Come on, Karkat, how’re you gonna get better, if you don’t even try?” 

“I’m gonna shave the rest of your head in the night,” you grumble as you roll forward to turn off the N64. It’s the only system you’ve ever had; in the past when you’ve asked for a new system, your father only says, _But you already have one!_ and the idea that there are differences between systems, or even that there are newer, better ones, always flies over his head. 

“No, you won’t, because then you won’t have a sleepover buddy, and you’ll have to spend eternity with your brother,” Tavros says with an easy smile as he starts to put the system back in the TV cabinet so your dad doesn’t trip over it in the night or something. “And, I know how much you love your brother?” He fluffs up his wide mohawk. “Also, you wouldn’t mess with these prime looks, for how else will the Tavros Nitramus attract a mate? I’ll call, uh, the ASPCA.” 

“They would take one look at you and they would understand I had to do it,” you say, a solemn look on your face as you climb back onto the couch. “Then they’ll say, Mr. Vantas, here’s a hundred dollars reward for your services to the community, and a lifetime supply of whatever the hell it is you’re into, and we’ll be taking that thing off your hands now. And I’ll say thank you, take him the fuck away.” 

“Yeah, but you’ll still have no one to distract you from being stuck in an apartment with your brother,” Tavros snickers as he joins you. Your heart hiccups. 

Sometimes you wonder just what the fuck is wrong with you. Ever since Tavros hit puberty you’ve wondered if maybe he would kiss you, especially in these moments alone together, because he’s one of the few people in your life that never treats you like garbage. Sometimes you look over at him watching TV intently on your couch, at his long lashes around inky black eyes, and at the smooth brown skin stretched over his broad shoulders, and you kind of stop breathing. 

But you also know you’re garbage, so you won’t ever ask, or try, especially because you think your life would be pretty empty without Tavros for a friend. That, and maybe it’s just your pathetic desire to be loved by somebody, _anybody_ , so you definitely squash those feelings. 

“You wanna make snacks and watch more Digimon?” Tavros says with a bright face, and you nod with relief. You would never suggest snacks first, but Tavros gets excused his large appetite because he’s a “growing boy” that could probably lift a couch in each hand. So you both scamper off to the kitchen, as much as two boys who weigh well over 200 pounds can scamper, anyway, and Tavros pops the fridge so fast you’re afraid it’ll fall over on him. 

You help him pick out the base ingredients, but then he gets all Emeril Lagasse about the exact ratio of M&Ms, mini pretzels and popcorn to mix together in a giant bowl, and you stay long enough to keep him from mixing in Cheetos before you head back into the living room to set shit up. You’re pretty sure there’s an easier, higher-tech way to do this, but you torrented all of the first two Digimon series, and then burned as many episodes as you could fit on a DVD. You’ve got an entire book of DVDs like this, and they represent hours of waiting for your dad’s computer to creak and whine through burning each one. 

When Tavros returns he’s got all the food delicately balanced in his arms, and you help him unload onto the coffee table. “Haha, wow, this looks like way too much food,” you say, which is a bullshit reflex and Tavros looks at you knowingly. You pretend you didn’t see that look. You’re watching from where you left off, which is close to the beginning of the second series, meeting the Digimon Kaiser. You’ve actually seen both series already, but Tavros hasn’t so you felt the need to share the magic with your friend. 

“So, haha, how gay is the Digimon Kaiser, for Daisuke?” Tavros chuckles. 

“I can’t tell you that. That would be spoilers,” you say as you reach for a handful of chips. 

“Oh, whoa, so they’re like, actually gay in Digimon?” His eyes go wide. “I didn’t think they would actually—”

“Oh my god, I was kidding, you sad loser!” you say as you fling an M&M at him. It misses and vanishes into the couch forever. “You’re so gullible, you know that?” 

“Yeah,” he says with a sheepish smile. “But still, they _should_ probably get together. Wait, how old are they again?” He squints at the screen. “I mean, the Kaiser seems pretty into whips and chains...” 

“Yeah, they really excite him,” you snort. “You can’t read any of my fics until you watch another few episodes, though. Spoilers.” He opens his mouth to speak, and you say, “And yes, you _have_ to care about spoilers!” 

You’re about to start the next episode when Tavros’s phone rings, so you mute the TV with a heavy sigh as he picks up. He still heads toward the kitchen, hunched down like that’ll help him hear better. “I’m at a friend’s house,” you hear from the doorway, where he stops. “Karkat’s. Karkat? I’ve had Karkat over before.” His thumb slips through his belt loop and his fingers drum against his hip nervously. “I did ask. You said yes.” A deep sigh. “What if I buy you a calendar for mother’s day?” You can see him suddenly grinning. “That’s how you raised me, yeah. Okay. Yes, okay! I’m going.” And he hangs up. 

“So you have to go?” you say, desperately hoping you somehow misinterpreted that last part. 

“Uh, yeah,” he says as he heads for the front door, where he always neatly hangs his bag and outerwear. “My parents need my help, uh, with a thing. Sorry.” He grimaces your way. “I would really rather stay and watch, um, gay Digimon animes! But it’s my parents. You know.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” You wave your hands in dismissal. “Whatever, we’re rainchecking this whole deal. I’m going to leave the coffee table exactly the way it is until you come back, and the DVD player is gonna stay on until then, too.” 

“I’m pretty sure your dad would have, stuff to say about that? Mostly to the contrary, of that being a thing you can do,” he laughs as he shrugs on his bookbag. “Sorry, Karkat. This weekend?” 

“Yeah,” you grumble. “Yeah, come by Saturday if you can. Whenever.” 

“As soon as I can on Saturday,” he promises, enveloping you in a tight quick hug. “But now I gotta, you know, do a thing.” 

You hate locking the door behind him. 

Now you’re left with all this food, and you’re not interested in a re-watch of the show without Tavros to be surprised at every twist and turn, so you just sink into the couch and turn on the cable. You pull your bag up from the side of the couch, thinking maybe you can get some lighter homework done while you watch...whatever the hell is on Cartoon Network right now. You wish you got Boomerang. 

Twenty minutes later the door unlocks, and it’s too early for your father to be home; your stomach twists painfully as you look up and see who’s coming in. 

“Little brother,” Kankri trills, still in the last days of his winter break while you’re already back at school. “Are you really eating all _that?”_ He always wears that chunky red turtleneck sweater until it’s way too hot to wear it, and you’ve found evidence that he owns multiples of exactly that same one. They’re _all_ from Banana Republic, which you’re not even sure how he afforded. 

“No,” you snap. “I had a friend over! See?” You point at Tavros’s glass, still half-full. 

“You know, I do appreciate how much you care about my opinion that you’d try and lie like that,” Kankri says as he takes a graceful seat next to you. You hate how he got all the good genes between the two of you; he’s almost as tall as you, acceptably slender, and looks more like your mother than your weather-beaten father. Oh, and he’s got all his melanin, too. “But I know you forget you already have a glass sometimes! So that one’s probably just yours, too.” When he smiles it’s always condescending, no matter how sweet it looks. 

“Why don’t you just fuck off?” you snarl, scooting down to the far end of the couch. At least he doesn’t follow. 

“I’m not going to lecture you on your language, because you’re too old for that, but I know you’ve got a more extensive vocabulary than that. You’re smart, Karkat. Act like it.” 

“I had a friend over! The snacks were his idea!” 

“I just worry about you,” Kankri says with a long-suffering sigh. “Being as heavy as you are is very unhealthy, and it’s not right for an older sibling to have to bury the younger.” 

“God, just—leave me the fuck alone!” you shout, gathering your bag and your homework and stalking off to your room. Or well, you almost do, but you pause and look back at the snacks. Your dad is gonna want for that to be cleaned up first. 

“Everything is fine in moderation, Karkat, but I really advise against bringing this—” Kankri taps a finger against the big glass bowl of M&Ms, pretzel and popcorn that Tavros put together “—into your room when you’re trying to work, or who knows how much you’ll eat?” 

“ _Fuck you!”_ you screech, and storm into your bedroom. You slam the door behind you, and roll onto your bed to bite your lip as hard as you can in an attempt to magically not fucking cry. Every time this happens you tell yourself you’ve sworn off crying, but every time you end up doing it anyway. Not this time, you tell yourself. Kankri’s fucking worthless, and so are his words. You won’t let him get to you. 

But of course, Kankri’s _not_ worthless. He’s the better-looking brother, for one, besides being the first-born; he’s intelligent, well-spoken, and not afraid of what people think of him. He got an almost-full scholarship to Cornell up in Ithaca, for fuck’s sake, which is doubly amazing for a young Chicano from Queens. He always gets his way, and he keeps the infamous Vantas temper well in check, which makes it actually effective when he does get angry. 

So you do cry, shut up in your room while your brother has the full run of the rest of the apartment. You cry yourself to sleep, in fact, and don’t wake up until you hear sharp knocks on your door. “Karkat,” your dad’s voice says as you blearily orient yourself, “you better get out here and clean up this mess.” He opens up the door anyway, because parents knocking is only a formality, and pauses as he gets a look at your face. “Ay, Karkat.” 

“I’ll go clean it up,” you say as you sit up slowly. “Sorry, just—”

“Were you crying again?” he asks as he pulls up the hems of his pants and takes a heavy seat on your bed. You take after him in a lot of ways. 

“No!” Your denial is instant and hot, but you hate this albinism that makes your embarrassment so easy to detect. You’ve never seen Kankri embarrassed, but you’re pretty sure this is a problem he’ll never have. 

“Your brother again?” He wraps an arm around your shoulder. When you don’t respond, he sighs and says, “He went back out. He said he was going to some, _como se dice_ , intellectual cafe? I don’t even know with that boy.” 

“He came home and started talking about my weight,” you finally mutter. “I had all that stuff out because Tavros was over, and I was gonna clean up but he wouldn’t stop talking about how I was gonna eat it all by myself and get even fatter.” 

Your father sighs again. “I’ll talk to him.” 

“No, then he’ll just talk to me about it some more. He always puts it that he’s ‘worried’ for me.” You shake your head. 

“You’re young, you’ve got better things to worry about than what your brother thinks about your weight,” he scoffs, and pats his belly. “This never stopped me from getting ladies!” 

“Gross, Dad.” But it’s pulled at least the tiniest of smiles out of you, which makes him grin in return and clap you way too hard on the back. 

“Oye, hijo.” 

“What, Dad.” 

“I made chilaquiles, just the way you like,” he says in a sing-song voice. “And I picked up the lollipops you like, with the chile on them.” 

“I’m not five,” you reply, but you sit up enough that you’re looking down at him instead of the other way around. “Really, though?” 

“Yeah, but you have to clean up the living room first!” he says with finality, getting back to his feet. “Put all that food away, and wash the dishes, and you can have all the chilaquiles you want.” 

You can hear him making up your plate as you clip bags of snacks closed, and pour Tavros’s snack mix into a big ziplock bag that you’ll probably hide in your room later. When you get into the kitchen and pull up the stool to the end of the counter, you find that not only has he made chilaquiles, put on the plate you always insisted was yours when you were younger, but he bought the flavor of Jarritos that only you like, and you really do feel like you’re five. Of course, you can’t kick your feet in the air the way you used to. 

“Anyway, you’re the favored son,” he says with a sniff as he takes a bite from his own plate. “Your brother says my cooking is too _campesino_ , only he uses five dollar words to tell me that.” And you laugh together. 

It’s almost like everything is okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys i know i'm popping out updates like puppies! but now i'm at the end of my three nights off and going back to work tonight so you'll have to wait a bit again 
> 
> and in the meantime whatever thoughts and reactions you have are super appreciated even if it's just idk keysmash or AHHHHH or whatever!! so yeah c: thank you and i'll see you guys in a few days probably!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> my lunch is a battleground

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kip helped me lay the groundwork for this chapter, too, so hooray
> 
> now im gonna go watch game of thrones from last night!

“I saw your earrings the other day,” Rose says quietly. You’re wedged between your sister and about a million strangers, shifting from your toes to your heels with each roll of the train because you can’t reach the pole. She usually leaves earlier than you specifically to avoid the press of rush hour, but she was still awake last night when you went to sleep, and she won’t talk about why. 

“Can we not do this right now?” you hiss, shoving away at the shoulder of a less balanced rider that’s toppling your way. They don’t say anything, just shuffle in embarrassment and plant a hand on the ceiling like that’ll really help. 

“I’m just saying, you don’t have to hide things from me,” she says with a shrug. “You’re my—my brother.” 

“You couldn’t wait until we were off the train? Or at home?” You throw your shoulders forward and stand on your toes to let people stream past as the doors open. 

“Nobody’s listening, Dave, come on.” She points around the two of you. “I could start talking about being a serial killer right now or something, and it wouldn’t matter. Everybody’s got headphones, or is reading, or just doesn’t _care_.” She leans toward you as she readjusts her hold on the pole. “Are you having second thoughts?” 

“About what?” You know exactly what. 

“Dave. It’s okay. You’re only seventeen.” 

“I’m sorry, Rose, I’m just so goddamn lost right now, I have no idea what the hell you’re talking about, or what bearing my age has on whatever that is.” You stare at her, mouth set. 

She bites her lip in return, breaking eye contact first as she glances down, then away. “I’m sorry, Dave, I know it’s not my business. I just worry.” She sneaks another glance your way this time. “About you, I mean. I... I want you to be able to talk to me.” 

You snort. “Listen, if I suddenly decide I was actually meant to be a chick, you’ll be the first one I tell, okay?” Hopefully your smirk is reassuring. 

“Yeah, alright.” She returns the smirk. You ride in silence for another minute, and then she asks, “But really, what were you doing wearing hoops?” 

“Jesus, Rose!” 

“I’m just curious! You can’t blame me for my natural psychologist’s instincts.” More people jostle past at the next stop, and you’re not even making an attempt to get out of their way. 

“You’re not a psychologist, you’re a teenage girl, and you’re my fucking sister,” you say with an exhausted groan. “You’ve never heard of cross dressers, Lalonde?” 

“Of course I have!” she retorts. “But that’s usually—”

“Don’t you say it,” you say with a deep scowl. “Don’t you fucking dare say it.” 

“—older men!” she finishes, glaring right back. “I’m not stupid, Dave!” 

“Sometimes I wonder,” you mutter. 

“This is my stop,” she says, icy as she releases the pole. “See you at home.” She doesn’t even wait for you to say goodbye, and yeah, maybe you fucked up a little. You push your headphones up from around your neck and jam them around your ears. You don’t even imply that Rose Lalonde is dumb; she’s got such a goddamn complex about it. 

But she fucked up too! Bad enough you constantly second-guess yourself in your head, like maybe you’re just a tomboy with a thing for gay dudes. Like maybe you just don’t like how women get treated. You don’t need your twin sister, who’s supposed to be your ally, questioning your gender too. No, you tell yourself as you dart into her vacated spot and wrap your hand around the still-warm pole, you’re all man and you don’t need her shit. 

It doesn’t stop you from being in a shitty mood for the rest of the day. Most days you forget to bring any kind of food from home because you wake up late and have only enough time to struggle into your binder and, alright, you admit you spend an inordinate amount of time on your outfit in the morning that could probably be better spent making some sandwiches for later. But some days it’s fucking crucial that your shirt hang just right to hide your childbearing hips, so you cut yourself slack on that one. You get to the cafeteria where you’re all supposed to sit until it’s time to go to homeroom, and the fucking vending machine that’s been tiding you over since you got to this school is gone. You don’t know the exact reason; you hear that not enough students were putting money in it, or that someone decided it was inviting obesity (and therefore unhealthy choices) to have a machine full of pop tarts and candy inside a school. 

The main point is you don’t have any food for lunch. And you barely got to eat anything for breakfast, got two bites of cereal in before you had to run out the door after Rose. You’re fucking starving. 

You have lunch fifth period. Just after third period lets out, though, you see Karkat walking your way, shoulders hunched up like that’ll make him _not_ stand practically head and shoulders above the rest of the student population, glaring at the floor like it said something about his mom. At this point he’s the only one you would actually call a friend in this school, everyone else just being an acquaintance if anything. So you swing around as he rushes past you, jogging to keep up with his long strides. 

“Karkat, my man!” you say. “You got any food to spare, dude?” 

“Why, because I’m a fatass?” he snarls, which is honestly not the response you expected, and it puts a stutter in your step before you catch up again. 

“What? No, man, they got rid of the vending machine downstairs.” Jesus, this dude can move for being such a giant. “Figured I could count on my homeboy to get me through tough times, seeing as how I don’t have, you know, any fucking food on me for lunch.” 

“Don’t you have anyone else to bother about this?” he asks, finally stopping, which you’re goddamn grateful for. It took him long enough, Christ. 

“Nah, man, you’re like, my only friend in this school right now,” you say, matter of fact. You almost put your hands on your hips, then drop them because you’re not really about emphasizing your girlish figure. 

He just gives you this intense stare that feels like fucking X-rays through to your soul, and you pull down the hem of your hoodie in discomfort. Maybe you should have bought a size bigger. Then he just shakes his head, and starts stalking off again. “Just leave me alone. Go mooch off someone else.” 

You’re desperate here, though, and as he turns away from you, you dodge up to his bookbag and hook a finger in that little gap in the zipper almost everyone leaves to yank it open. He’s pulled backwards, off balance and staggering by the motion, but you’ve hit paydirt and there’s a nice little insulated lunch bag in here in fire truck red. You snatch it and zip his bag shut again in two lightning-fast motions, which pull him even further off balance, and the dude almost falls on top of you before you push against him to help him back onto his feet properly. 

“I’m sorry!” you shout as you dart away, Karkat just staring at you with a dumbfounded expression that’s slowly transforming into anger. “I’ll buy you lunch or something! Whenever you want! And I’ll give the bag back! Sorry!” He’s not chasing you, though, so maybe he believes you and will let this go. You sure as fuck hope so. You sure are a social champion. 

At lunch you open up the little red bag and shit, yes, whoever put Karkat’s lunch together deserves a fucking award. This isn’t some grade school bullshit with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a juicebox; there’s a little tupperware container of rice and black beans with chicken, and underneath is another container with the juiciest, most perfect platanos maduros you think you may have ever seen. You’ve never had better than the ones at the corner store buffet. 

Inside is a real fork, which must be from Karkat’s place, and you’re struck with guilt. You imagine Karkat at home, putting together his little lunch sack with care, looking forward to a good home cooked meal—and now you’ve stolen the dude’s entire meal. Now you get to eat, but what’s he supposed to do for food? Asshole. 

With a sigh you use the fork to part a line a third of the way into the rice and beans from the side of the container; you’ll eat the third, and one—okay, two—of the platanos maduros. If you were an actual good person you’d leave it all untouched and go pop this shit in his locker or something, but you’re hungry, and you already have it. You should probably wash the fork in the bathroom when you’re done, though. 

As you eat your portion of Karkat’s food at a table where nobody’s really looking at each other, thinking of what you’ve got recorded on the DVR at home and twiddling with your phone, a shadow suddenly falls across the table and you look up. A boy you don’t recognize stands next to you, arms crossed. He’s got a streak of purple in his otherwise black hair, although it’s kind of faded, and he wears black plastic frames that look exactly like the ones you can get for ten bucks in Chinatown, so you have to wonder if they’re actually prescription. 

He’s not saying anything, though, so you put the fork down and purse your lips. “Can I help you?” You pitch your voice down when you’re talking to new people, although you try to make it sound natural, and you think it works; it helps being a teenager, though you don’t wanna think about how that’s gonna work as an adult. 

“You’re the new kid, right? From Brandeis?” he says, and he sits himself down across from you. “I’m Eridan.” 

“Oh, people actually introduce themselves around here?” you laugh, taking another bite. “Shit, I was starting to think there was something fucking wrong. But yeah.” You hold out a friendly hand. “I’m Dave.” 

“Haha, man, you have small hands,” Eridan says as he accepts the shake. You don’t know what to say to that, but you stifle the urge to hide your hands under the table. You don’t show strangers your insecurities. 

“All the better to rob banks with,” you say, holding your hands up and twiddling your fingers. “I didn’t actually transfer in from Brandeis, I’m actually 40 and I’m here as part of a major operation to rob Donald Trump.” Mr. Trump’s got a tower not too far from this school. 

“Is that why you stole that?” Eridan says, tapping on the empty red lunch bag. 

“Who said I stole it?” you say, tensing, but Eridan just laughs. 

“Karkat’s had this stupid thing since fifth grade,” he tells you, and on second inspection, he’s right in that the bag looks pretty fucking beat up. “He had a Justice League lunchbox before that, but some kid threw it over the fence one day and that was kinda it.” Eridan picks it up and turns it on its side, tapping the bottom where Karkat’s name is written in big black letters. “See? I knew it.” 

“I’m gonna give it back,” you say with a shrug. “I was just really fucking hungry, and I did tell him sorry.” 

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Eridan says with a shrug of his own. “He eats enough, honestly.” There’s a cruel twist to his laugh that makes you uneasy. “But listen, you wanna come with me and my friends after school to Wendy’s? Meet some people, make some friends?” 

“I got shit to do, though,” you say with a shrug, taking your last bite. “What is this, like, the cool dudes club?” 

“I mean, that’s kind of a weird way to put it, but sure. You can call it that if you like.” He smooths a hand along the top of his hair, and it crinkles softly under his touch. “I mean the main point is,” and he glances at the red lunch bag, “I’m pretty sure we’ve got similar interests, here, and that I’ll be introducing you to people you’ll get along with.” 

The bell rings, and you pop the lid back on the rice and beans. You didn’t get to eat any of the platanos maduros, which is a goddamn shame, but you’ll just have to let it go. “I’ll think about it,” you say as you put it back together, wiping the fork off as best as you can with a napkin. “I gotta get to class.” 

“What period do you get out?” Eridan asks as he follows you out. 

“Tenth,” you lie as you pass through the door. You intend to be long gone by then; this Eridan kid rubs you all the wrong ways. You see Karkat waiting with the rest of the kids assigned to sixth period lunch, and you walk faster, lunch bag held out. 

“So I’ll see you outside after tenth!” Eridan shouts over the crowd as you reach Karkat. You don’t respond. 

You look (way) up and offer Karkat the lunch bag. “I only ate some of the rice and beans,” you say. “But maybe you wanna clean off the fork before you eat, sorry.” He’s just staring at it with furrowed brows, and you thrust it up again. “Come on, man, I gotta get to class.” 

He snatches the bag and hurries away from you without a word. You don’t know what you’re supposed to make of that, but maybe that’s just that and you start heading for the stairs. Before you go through the door to the stairwell, though, you glance back over your shoulder, and you see him doing the same—with his face twisted with loathing. As soon as you make eye contact he turns red and looks away instantly, but you’re still taken by surprise and someone has to push you from behind to make you keep moving. 

You have this sick feeling like maybe you’re stepping blindly into a huge mess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did you like that? you should tell me what you think even if you thought it was a big ol fart!! because i have work two nights in a row, one night off, and then another three in a row sooooo it'll be a while until the next update sorry u_u anyway tell me all your thoughts and feelings and ideas or whatever else! thank you for reading and remember i love you


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a trip to the place with the stuff

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i totally thought i would be too tired but hey!! an update! i hope u enjoy

“Bro, this is the worst idea you’ve ever had,” Gamzee says as he trots after you into the bright pink space. “Now, I’m not saying you usually have bad ideas, because you usually got your skull screwed on right between the two of us, but this...” 

“I’ve got it under control,” you lie, not sure what to do with your eyes. There are bras everywhere, like racks and racks of phantom breasts. You’re almost 100% sure you don’t like girls, but boobs still make you feel embarrassed and a little turned on. (And you’re still of the opinion that being turned on is a thing you shouldn’t even have the ability to be, but your body never seems to agree.) “It’ll definitely work.” 

“Girls don’t keep underwear in their lockers,” your friend sighs. “Yo, down there, right?” He points toward a lighter pink section of the store that leads to descending escalators. 

“How would you know what girls do? And how would I know what part of the store I should be in?” you hiss, squeezing the straps of your bookbag nervously. 

“Because chicks tell me weird shit, one,” Gamzee replies, counting off on his fingers, “and two, you ain’t got a job and your daddy ain’t rich. If you gotta buy from this store, you want the cheaper shit for college chicks.” He points at the escalators again. “Come on, if you’re gonna do some bone-headed shit, at least do it right.” 

Gamzee still won’t walk in front of you, so you end up leading the way down into the section of Victoria’s Secret aimed at, as Gamzee put it, “college chicks.” There are more ghost tits down here, in cutesier cotton prints, and tables full of panties dotting the floor; moreover, there are no men down here besides you and Gamzee, and it feels a lot more crowded here than on the ground floor. You almost grab Gamzee’s hand for courage, then rethink it and go for it anyway, because maybe if they see you as gay they won’t think you’re some kind of pervert. Which you are, but you’d rather not broadcast that. Gamzee doesn’t even notice your efforts, but manages to thwart them anyway by turning away and heading toward one of the tables. He has no shame. 

“How much money did you bring, Kar?” Gamzee asks as he shoulders his way between two women, who immediately leave for another table, probably put off by Gamzee’s greasy ponytail and his general aroma of body odor and nicotine. He’s already rifling through underwear laid neatly on the table, and you can see the panic rising in a nearby employee’s eyes. 

“Forty bucks,” you say as you pull him away. “Gamzee, I think those are the display ones, don’t mess them up.” 

“It’s somebody’s job to fix ‘em,” he says with a shrug. “How was I gonna know? Anyway,” he continues, wrapping a lanky arm around your shoulder, “you ain’t gonna get a whole lot with that cash, brother.” He points at the sign, and your heart sinks. Five pairs for $26. You thought $40 would buy you enough underwear to bury your victim, but instead it’s not even going to be enough to qualify as an armful. Your plan is falling apart. 

“Look,” Gamzee says as you sigh. “You could be spending forty green a lot wiser, is all I’m sayin’. This shit ain’t likely to work.” 

“No,” you say with a shake of your head. “I mean, I’m already here, so I might as well go with it. Besides, it was stupid to think like, a hundred pairs of panties was going to be anything less than cartoonish. A few pairs is gonna be a lot more incriminating.” You drop to your knees (because squatting strains the seams of your pants and you don’t ever want to risk that public humiliation) and start rifling through one of the bottom drawers, which are all marked as size L. Your target seems like an ass man. 

“Maybe, but that still don’t rule out the fact that girls don’t keep underwear on school premises like that!” Gamzee says, dragging his hands down his face. “Come on, bro!” 

“You still don’t know that, and I don’t think the dean knows that, either!” you say. “And for fuck’s sake, stop yelling!” 

“Okay, sure, from the goddamn Grand Poobah of Yelling himself,” Gamzee chuckles. “Whatever. You gonna get just the five?” 

“Yeah, I think they’re like—” you check the price tag on one pair, trying to ignore that the entire table has been deserted because of you “—almost nine bucks without the deal.” Cool and collected, that’s you. Totally not freaking out anymore over touching a bunch of tiny-looking women’s underwear. The size large panties you’re picking out look like they might fit around one of your thighs. “So yeah, just the five.” 

“Nepeta’s gonna _love_ these, these are totally her style,” Gamzee says, very sudden and very loud, and you wanna stand up to elbow him but it makes you look less creepy. “Get like, one pair with the lace in the back, chicks love that shit.” 

When you stand up at last, having taken a tour around the table on your knees to collect an appropriate collection of underwear, you do give him a little elbowing. “Nepeta, really?” you whisper. Gamzee just shrugs with a grin, the asshole, and you can’t help but chuckle a little, too. Nepeta might be the only person you’ll ever reject in your lifetime, and really only because she was a girl; she’s kind of a badass for being such a weeb, and kind of cool for hanging out with a fitness freak like Equius Zahhak, who’s only a few rungs above you on the social ladder. You feel bad about it, always, but you also kind of prize the memory, if only because for once someone thought you weren’t a gross undateable pile of trash. 

When you get to the register, though, the nerves come right back, and you find yourself handing the cashier your cash with sweaty palms. She doesn’t seem to be bothered by your purchase, but she looks up to make eye contact, her mouth forming the shapes to tell you the total, and you blurt out, “They’re for my girlfriend!” There’s this pause that makes you realize if you’d kept your yap shut, she might have just assumed that on her own, but now she’ll never believe that lie. 

You barely remember your change, and you run up the escalator two steps at a time, tiny bag swinging from your damp fist. You don’t stop moving until you’re outside the store, and then you have to wait a good minute for Gamzee to catch up to you. Gamzee doesn’t like to run. It’s for the best, really, because at least this way you can take the time to catch your fucking breath against the side of the building. 

“So what’s step two, bro?” Gamzee asks as he exits the store, hands in his pockets like nothing weird just happened. “You just gonna stroll up to his locker like it ain’t got a combination or nothin’?” 

“No,” you grunt, standing up straight. “I googled some things, okay? I’ve got this.” 

“I still think this is a dumbass plan, but man, it ain’t me that gotta deal with the fallout.” He shakes his head and lights up. “You wanna come chill at my place? My dad ain’t home.” 

“Your dad’s never home,” you reply, swinging your bookbag around to jam the little shopping bag inside. “But yeah, I can’t deal with Kankri and he’s home for another two days because his stupid winter break is longer than he thought.” 

“I know that’s the only reason you got for hangin’ around a degenerate like me,” Gamzee says mournfully, breathing out a steady plume of smoke. 

“Yeah, pretty much all you’re good for.” You laugh as you shoulder your bag and start walking. “Why did you even light that cigarette when the station is basically right there?” 

“Because I’m a dumb motherfucker,” he says, but he jerks his head in the opposite direction. “Let’s walk to the east side and catch the 4, give me more time with this smoke.” 

What you like about Gamzee’s place is also what unnerves you about it: There’s never anyone home, and he’s told you before that sometimes his dad is gone for days at a time. And like yours, his mother isn’t in the picture, either, though he won’t say what happened to her. Your mother gave your father custody early in your life; your father always told you it was a pretty civil divorce, though you don’t have anyone to back him up on that. 

He’s got this beat up 360 that’s been in the shop three times for the red ring of death, and it’s such a step up from your N64 you don’t even razz him about it. He doesn’t really own a lot of multiplayer games, but it doesn’t matter, because whenever you come over he doesn’t want to play, just watches you play the save files he lets you keep on his games while he tokes up. He lies on the couch while you sit on the floor, and when he’s got a decent high going he plays with your hair and touches your face until you tell him he’s messing you up. Sometimes that’s when he climbs down from the couch and just leans up against you like he’s an animal starved for affection. You let him. 

There’s not food here like at your place, so you try to quiet your appetite until you get home. The whole apartment is a mess, although in a pseudo-comfortable way, like Gamzee is a rat in his nest. The only two rooms that are off-limits are the ones he designates as his dad’s room and his brother’s room, though you’ve never met this brother of his. You only know his father exists because you saw him leaving the apartment once. Gamzee’s room is the biggest mess of all, and sometimes he invites you back there and you take a single hit off his bong—you’re afraid your dad will somehow sniff it out if you take any more than that. 

Gamzee is definitely a different kind of friend than Tavros, a dropout to Tavros’s straight shooter, but sometimes you consider introducing them. Most of the time though, you think Gamzee’s bad influence should stay limited to you. Also, you don’t know if Tavros would forgive his smell as well as you do. (Maybe you’re just used to it.) 

The awkward part is always leaving, because some days you can see the loneliness strangling Gamzee’s whole body and he begs you to stay long past when your dad allows, but today he’s easy about it. He just gives you a hug and reaches up to ruffle your hair, says say hi to your dad for me. You both know you won’t, but neither of you care. 

When you get home, though, you’re slipping off your shoes when you hear something shift in the back of the apartment. Where your room is. And from the same place you hear your brother’s voice call out, “Little brother? Is that you?” 

You crash into your bedroom wide-eyed, just in time to see Kankri turn around holding up the package of Chips Ahoy you keep stashed in your desk. “This is very unhealthy, you know,” he says, his other hand planted on his hip. “If I didn’t have to go back up to Ithaca I would have half a mind to start monitoring your diet, maybe get you eating some greens instead of this sugary garbage.” He shakes the package. “This is extremely fattening—” 

“What the _hell_ are you doing snooping through my shit?!” you finally snap, snatching the cookies from his grasp. “You can’t respect me even a little bit?!” 

“I’m—I’m just trying to help!” Kankri says, arms akimbo now that he’s got both hands free. “Karkat, don’t you realize you’re shortening your life span? I’m afraid for you!” 

“I’m gonna shorten _your_ lifespan if you don’t get the fuck out of my room!” you roar. 

“You can’t speak to me in that tone,” he says, eyes flashing, but you’re not in the mood for his temper. Yours is the same Vantas temper, after all. 

“Oh, why, because you’re the smarter brother? Whoop-de-fucking doo, Kankersore!” You can see him stifling a flinch at that one. “I’m the better son! And I don’t speak Spanish with that stupid gringo accent like you do, _maldito pendejo!”_ You throw your hands up, and it’s like you slapped him. Nothing you’re saying is fair; before you came along your parents only spoke to Kankri in English to try and get him to fit in better going into school, before getting tired of that whole rigamarole a few years later. When he was little he spoke English with an accent that wore off by the end of kindergarten, and he can understand Spanish being spoken to him, but he’s never had your ability to really speak the language. 

“Fine, eat yourself into an early grave, for all I care. I’m sure speaking Spanish better will help you with that endeavor somehow,” he spits. “I’m going out.” 

You close your door and sit down in your computer chair with a shaky sigh; the rest of you is trembling, too, you realize. Once you hear the front door slam and lock, you tear into the cookies and eat unapologetically, even though you know you’ll hate yourself later, because fuck Kankri. It’s not like you’re ever going to be skinny and attractive, so what does it matter what the number on the scale is? 

It hits you, as you lose another game of solitaire, that if you hadn’t been out at Gamzee’s Kankri might have found the panties in your bag. You roll over to your bookbag and take them out, setting the bag on your lap to start breaking off the paper tags. The plan is simple; break into Dave Strider’s locker early next morning—with the excuse that you have some work to do in the computer lab, if anyone asks you what you’re doing at school so early—and plant the underwear on the edge of the top shelf, in just the right way to have them fall out with the opening of the locker door. Dave Strider will then look like a huge pervert stealing from the girl’s locker room as well as a fool, and then maybe he’ll know what it’s like to be laughed at, to be socially worthless. And he’ll probably get in trouble, too, but that’s just a bonus. 

You transfer the now un-returnable panties into a Duane Reade bag, which goes into your bookbag, and slide the Victoria’s Secret shopping bag under your mattress to be discarded later. You’re ready for this plan, and you’re sure it’s foolproof.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ps thank you guys sooooo so much for all the comments so far, i appreciate every single one! c: if i haven't replied to your comment it doesn't mean i don't appreciate it or didn't read it so dont worry please
> 
> seeeeeee you in a few days probably! and as per usual please tell me all your thoughts and feelings and stuff i really enjoy that


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i dont think you got up at 5am to make all those goddamn sandwiches

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY SO fair warning for unpleasant things in this chapter and please let me know if anyone needs additional tags

It's the second morning that you and your sister haven't been speaking; even when you're alone together in your room after school, you block each other out with headphones and the Internet. There's nothing you'd like better than to drape yourself over the back of her chair and start reading whatever fanfiction she's got open out loud. You know she deserves an apology for you calling her stupid, but you don't want to give it until she's apologized for trying to psychoanalyze your gender for the umpteenth time, and you're pretty sure she feels much the same way, though vice versa. You don't know how long she intends to keep this up, either. 

So you go to school by yourself, a little late but who gives a fuck? Aloe Blacc blasts in your ears, not really the kind of tunes to nod along to, but you do anyway and it soothes you. You identify with this masculine voice speaking masculine words about feminine folks. You swing one-handedly from the pole by the door, and the dark window there becomes a mirror where you mold your face into a manly scowl, pick out the strongest features of your face and angle your head until the deep shadow gives you your Adam's Apple. There's no girl here. All people see, you're sure of it, is a short black boy, light-skinned maybe, bleach-haired maybe, but definitely no freakish albino girl. 

By the time you get to school you're feeling good, sliding your headphones around your neck and combing your flat-top in progress one more time before stepping into the building. You've got your own lunch packed today, and even though it's pretty rinky-dink next to rice and beans and platanos, you packed a peace offering pernil sandwich for Karkat you slapped together yourself this morning. The pernil is from the beginning of the week, one of Bro’s favorite pseudo-lazy foods to make because it keeps the kids fed for a good while, but hopefully it'll be the thought that counts. You really are sorry for just taking his damn lunch like that, and who doesn’t like pernil? You’re pretty sure he eats pork. 

Maybe if you were on time, you'd head to your locker first. You don't exactly wanna be carting around all this food all day, or at least until sixth period when hopefully you'll run into Karkat. But your Economics teacher is this hard-ass who goes into these long fantastical stories about why you could have possibly been late, every word dripping in sarcasm, and they only get longer with every minute you're tardy, which is some shit you just don’t have the energy to survive today. You slide into your seat in the back, Mr. Stichler already launching into a tale of Dave Strider, the teen spy too busy battling ex-Soviet super soldiers on the—which train do you take again, Dave? the 1?—on the 1 train, putting his life on the line for American freedoms in the 21st century, yes _far_ too busy to come to class on time. 

Lunch period today is uneventful; it looks like that Eridan kid is absent. Yesterday he'd wanted to know where the hell you'd been after tenth period, but the jittery, angry way he asked put you off, so you didn't bother with a real excuse. You told him you forgot, giving him a deadpan stare; he kind of just shuffled his feet, said some shit under his breath and left you alone to eat your own pernil sandwich with your headphones on, like a lot of the other kids at the loner table you’ve accidentally assigned yourself to. You snorted as you wondered if that’ll come back to bite you in the ass, because you’re one hundred and ten percent sure you could fold Eridan into a paper plane to send to the ER if he came at you. The dude looks like he’s made of nothing but string and wimpiness. 

After lunch you stroll out into the crowd of kids waiting to get let into sixth period lunch, ducking and weaving like you couldn’t just say excuse me or something until you reach Karkat. “Ey yo, Vantas,” you say by way of greeting, and at first he looks right over your head before glancing down to find you in his personal bubble; you can see it when he jumps a little. You try to keep at least two feet between you, but that’s kind of difficult in this fucking herd of teenagers. Something you can’t identify flashes across his face, immediately replaced by confusion as you hold up the foil-wrapped sandwich. 

“What the hell is that?” he asks, eyeing it like you’re showing him a bomb. 

“It’s a sandwich, man. I told you I would buy you lunch, but we both know kids like us ain’t got that kind of scratch, so here’s a sandwich instead.” He keeps staring at it. “I mean, I got up at like, 5AM and made all these goddamn sandwiches, you know?” Now he’s staring at you, brow furrowed and lips just barely parted. 

He won’t say anything, though, so you sigh and grab him by the wrist to pull his hand forward so you can slap the sandwich into his palm. At first he doesn’t realize what you’re doing, which makes him unresistant, and then he tries to pull his arm away so hard the sandwich almost falls to the floor. He’s a big boy, with all the strength that comes with owning a body that size, but you’re stronger with years of lifting weights in your room and mixed martial arts training from your brother. You yank his hand back and you can see the surprise registering in his face as you push his fingers around the edges of the sandwich. 

“Just take the goddamn sandwich, nerd,” you say, raising your brow for emphasis. “Don’t make this a federal fucking issue.” Some part of you wonders how this dude has friends at all, if he acts this paranoid all the fucking time. He’s still looking at the sandwich like it’s gonna bite him in the nads by the time you walk away. 

All in all, you feel like you’re having a decent day, Karkat’s weirdness and your sister’s stubborn personality aside. You make it through the rest of your classes without falling asleep or getting in trouble, which is the biggest goal you have in school, really. Smooth sailing, as far as you’re concerned. Your English teacher laid this new book on you to start reading, though, and you’re pretty sure it’ll do better in your locker for now. No, you’ll definitely read it, you promise. Just later. 

Nobody ever really expects things to go wrong when they’re just opening their locker. And it’s funny because if you think about it, you’re pretty sure that’s one of the recurring types of pranks in 80s teen movies and 90s teen shows, but maybe you don’t count yourself as the kind of hapless nerd scripted to eternal bullshit in his life. Maybe that’s why you just don’t see it coming when you open your locker and a single pair of panties splats to the floor in front of your toes. 

You stare at the panties, heart pounding; the chatter of the hallway seems to fade all around you, drowned out by the sound of your own pulse. They’re mint green, and they’ve managed to land flat enough that you can read the words BEACH BUM stamped across the ass in white text. Honestly, your first thought is that they’re so dumb you might actually really like to wear them. They even look like they’d fit your ass. 

But it doesn’t last, because there’s only one message these can possibly be sending. 

_Somebody knows._

As your hearing begins to return you hear someone laughing, someone else (you think) saying _Yo, are those panties?_ and _This dude’s got panties all over his locker!_ which makes you look up, and there are more pairs of panties, most of them just shoved up on the edge of the shelf and one pair in particular hanging halfway off the edge of it. You see lace. 

You reach down and pick up the green panties on the floor, because maybe they’re not real and you’re just so tired you’re fucking dreaming in the middle of class, but if you’re in a dream it doesn’t break, the underwear cool and smooth between your fingers. These are from Victoria’s fucking Secret. Somebody spent fucking _money_ to send you a message. 

Suddenly your locker door is being slammed shut by someone else, and a firm adult hand closes around your bicep. “You’re coming with me,” a gruff voice says. The tunnel vision you didn’t even realize you’d been reduced to vanishes, and you’re now aware that you’re surrounded by students with nothing better to do than try to see just how many panties you have in your locker, as well as the fact that Mr. Castro, the head dean, is pulling you away from them and toward the staff-only elevator. You hear clapping as well as whooping, and if you squint you can see that Mr. Castro had the presence of mind to put the combination lock back on your locker. The green panties are still in your hand for some reason. 

You don’t remember how to have nerve endings until you’re sitting in Mr. Castro’s office, underwear still clutched in your death grip. “Dave,” Mr. Castro says, so softly in contrast with his earlier tone. “Dave?” 

“Yeah.” You don’t have much else in you. 

“Are you alright?” You look up at him and he actually looks concerned on the other side of the giant wooden desk. 

“Yeah.” 

“I’m going to give you detention today—” He holds up a hand when that snaps you out of your fog and you open your mouth to protest. “I’m giving you detention today as a favor to you.” 

“What the hell kind of ‘favor’ is detention?” you want to know. You realize you’re sitting in the dean’s office with expensive, vaguely sexy underwear in your hand, like that is what you’re actually doing, and you swing your bookbag up onto your lap to cover them. You still don’t know what to _do_ with them. 

“Well, I don’t know where that underwear in your locker came from—”

“I didn’t put them there!”

“—But it’s probably for the best if a boy like you gets in trouble for having girls’ underwear in his locker, right?” And he gives you a meaningful look. _A boy like you._ Right, because you’re the fake boy. How could you forget? You sigh out loud. 

“Yeah.” 

Mr. Castro just shifts awkwardly for a too-long moment of silence, before he writes you the slip and pushes it across the desk. You accept it with a grunted thank you, and drag yourself off to detention, where you get to stay until four thirty, because the kids who get out tenth period that have detention will be joining you, too. 

You can’t stop thinking about it. There’s bile in your throat and fire in your brain as you read the same line over and over in the book you meant to put in your locker. Somebody fucking _knows_. There’s no other possible reason someone would leave goddamn _panties_ in your locker. While it’s true that all your paperwork has the name Dave on it thanks to your brother, they’re also all stamped with that damnable letter: F. F for female, fucking _female_. You bite your lower lip until it feels like you’re going to bite through. 

It’s got you so fucked up that in your fugue state, you forget to make one simple turn walking home from the train station, one fucking turn that would take you out of the path of danger like it always does, and you keep walking forward, eyes on the ground as your cogs grind, headphones around your neck since your phone died. 

It shouldn’t be a problem at this hour, really, but it’s just your fucking luck that they decided to stay out a little later today. _They_ means these burnout assholes who have been the neighborhood hecklers—to put it extremely lightly—since you moved into the neighborhood when you were ten. They sprawl across stoops, not always their own, and you don’t think they have jobs or go to school because they just stay the fuck out there until they get bored and go back upstairs to bug their families or whatever. At leas the cold weather usually sends them in earlier, but it’s not as freezing today. Maybe that’s it. Maybe it’s just Mother Nature, and not because you’re just an unlucky piece of shit. 

They start yelling your birth name, and that’s what tips you off to your mistake. They’ve seen you, which means it’s too late to do anything until they’re through with you. Three of them, Puerto Rican motherfuckers who like to speak fast slurred Spanglish to act like they’re real macheteros, talk shit about the rest of the caribe like anyone really gives a shit about inter-island rivalry on St. Nicholas Avenue. They got it special for Dominican kids like you for reasons you don’t even know. And now they’re all around you in a ring of danger. 

“Where you goin’, mamita?” one of them laughs. He’s Geraldo, you know that from when his mom sticks her head out the window with the million curlers and yells at him to come upstairs and do something, but the other two call him Jerry unless they’re trying to act like they’re all connected with the homeland with the Spanglish. The other two are Manuel—Manny—and Federíco, who doesn’t let anyone call him Freddy. Jerry’s in charge. 

“Don’t you have chores to do, Geraldo?” you spit as you keep walking; they keep circling around you in little jogging steps like obnoxious sharks. 

“I got a chore for you, right here,” he says with a short laugh, grabbing his crotch. “What’s the matter, you don’t think I’m funny anymore?”

“We’re just tryin’ to be friendly,” Federíco says, his hands held wide. “You don’t have to be all mean like that.” 

“Get a goddamn job!” Fear strangles your vocabulary, and usually anxiety makes you more talkative, but this is more than anxiety. You’ve avoided them for so long you’ve forgotten how much your heart jumps into your throat around them. 

“Don’t be like that,” Manny says, grabbing you by the shoulder. “You act like you’re too good for us, you know that? You act all uppity and shit.” 

You shrug your shoulder out from under his hand with a violent jerk, face stony. If you can get to the end of the block, maybe they’ll get bored and turn around to stay in their territory, like NPCs with shitty AI in a video game. 

“You think you’re a man, now? ’Cause you dress like you got a dick and try to sound like you got a deep voice?” Jerry says from the other side, grabbing your other shoulder. He grabs harder, stronger, feels like it might bruise as it yanks you out of your step, stumbling. “You wanna be a faggot, we can treat you like one!” 

Your mind is pure klaxon wailing as you twist away from Manny and Jerry, whose hands land on your hips, aiming for the hem of your shirt and the waistband of your pants. Federíco is waiting ahead of you—so you sock him in the gut, and you knock him off his feet as you pass. By the time he hits the pavement you’re in a full sprint, Manny and Jerry hard on your heels. They don’t have your stamina or agility, though, and in a hot second you’re swinging the corner, ricocheting off the street light. You don’t hear them anymore but you don’t risk it, keep running until you’re up the steps and fumbling the keys into the front door of your building. 

You sink against the wall in the lobby as you wait for the elevator, trying to quell the tremors that have overtaken your whole body. At least you didn’t have to deal with them for too long. 

You drop your keys twice trying to open the apartment door, and when you get in you just drop your bag in the entrance and stagger into the living room. Rose is sitting on the couch, tiny scissors in hand and a plastic bag full of hair clippings on the cushion next to her as she watches what looks to be a rerun episode of True Blood. She snips another tiny ringlet of hair away and puts it in the bag, because she doesn't like to be confined to the bathroom when she's trimming her curls.

“I see you decided to finally come home,” she says coolly, not looking at you just yet. “Have you—” But now she is looking at you, and you’re still shaking, you keep grabbing at your hands like you can hold them still when no part of you will stop shaking. “—Dave?” The scissors get dropped next to the bag and she jumps up, walking toward you. 

“I shouldn’t have called you stupid,” you mumble, but she sees right through you, sees what happened in the whites of your eyes and she wraps her arms around you. It only takes a second for you to hug her back, tight like you need this like air, and you rock back and forth with your cheek laid to her temple. Her hands rub up and down your back while you fail to not cry on your sister.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok wow i stayed up way too late finishing this and i finished the chapter much earlier than i thought i would, although ironically this is the longest chapter thus far
> 
> anyway COMMENTS!!! comments make me update faster especially since i have tonight and tomorrow night off so yeah please let me know all your emotions and thoughts and. you know the drill. i love u all


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> detention more like Gay Baby Jail... haha, see, relevant Joke, i am Relevant, i make The Joke of Today

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW longest chapter so far, wheezes, but i had a little more time off so?? i churned this out and now it's way past my bedtime!! pls enjoy

On your way to meet Gamzee Friday after your last period, you catch bits and pieces of conversation from students pouring down the stairs around you, tittering about “the new kid” and “panties.” At first Gamzee actually bothers asking what's got you in such a good mood when you meet him by the bus stop, before he hears it too and he shakes his head. “I can't even begin to believe that shit worked, bro.” 

“It worked because teenagers are dumb and I'm the entire opposite of dumb when it comes to my fellow teenagers,” you reply. There's an undeniable spring in your step. “How about we skip the torture factory at Wendy’s and go to the Taco Bell in Union Square?” Because you know what waits on that top floor of the Wendy’s, waiting to verbally gut you just for existing, and god, you’re not gonna let anything bring you down today. 

“I don't know how you like that shit when you're a real live Mexican,” Gamzee says with another shake of his head as he starts walking, leading the way to the train station. “Wendy's ain't got all that sodium, man. Gonna clog both our arteries.” 

“That’s not sodium that does that, dumbass. And don't even try to tout Wendy's as health food, that's some of the most absurd shit I’ve ever heard escape those flappers in the middle of your face.” You kick an empty Wendy's cup out of the way. “If Wendy's is health food, then I am actually an FBI agent in a fat suit, undercover at one of the DOE's _favorite_ schools to find out exactly why all the French fries are soggy and cold when the knishes are always crisp and hot. My name is Agent Rodriguez, and I am here to free you from your Aramark chains.” 

“Man, I just like the sauce. Lemme stop in and buy something real quick so I can get some sweet and sour?” He comes to a stop, and you look up; the asshole's led you right to Wendy's because you were too busy running your mouth to pay attention to where you were walking. He jerks his thumb over his shoulder at the door, where other kids are already walking in. “Come on, Karkat. Real quick, then we can go to Taco Bell and you can order all the weird fake food you got a wish for. We ain’t gonna sit down.” 

You sigh. “You promise we won’t stay?” 

“Scout’s honor, bruh,” he says with a grin, jogging backward toward the door. 

“Like you even know what a boy scout looks like, let alone honor,” you grumble as you follow him, and he holds the door open for you with an excited grin. 

You stick embarrassingly close to Gamzee once you get on the line, staring down at your shoes the majority of the time as if that’ll keep Brandon from noticing you if he’s not upstairs already. As you near the register, you hear not Brandon’s voice, but George and Ricky, two of his most favorite cronies, as they come crashing down the stairs. You glance up, and sure enough, they’re heading for the condiments station to squirt ketchup into way more paper cups than they probably need. You turn away completely, pulling up your hood to cover your stupid distinctive yellow hair. 

“Man, I am gonna tell Eridan some shit on Monday,” George says as you hear the sound of the ketchup dispenser being pumped. “I am not a goddamn errand boy gettin’ ketchup for everybody while my meal’s gettin’ cold.” 

“His name even sounds like errands,” Ricky laughs. “You hear it, right?” 

“Yeah, man, that’s good!” George laughs back. “That’s fuckin’ funny. Help me carry these, though.” They don’t take long, already running back up by the time Gamzee reaches the cashier. 

You almost feel bad for Eridan. Almost. But he made his own bed, you remind yourself, and now he’s going to toss and turn in it. 

The weekend is really nice, between your victory over Dave and Kankri being back upstate. Tavros comes over Saturday afternoon for a sleepover, and you finally manage to beat him at Mario Kart, although only because he relented and let you play on 50cc. Your dad gives you twenty bucks to go see a movie because he’s feeling tired, which works for you, and you end up going to watch Les Miserables, which has been out for long enough now that the theater isn’t too crowded when you go. Tavros seems delighted with it, so you bite your tongue and don’t mention how glad you are it wasn’t your money you blew on that. 

Tavros sleeps topless because he’s comfortable around you, and at night you wonder how it is that the faded stretch marks on his shoulders just seem like another attractive feature of many on him, when you feel nausea every time your fingers accidentally brush over the runnels of scar tissue on your own body. Of course, it helps that his are old, and signs of masculine growth that appeared a little too suddenly; you have a mix of new and old that signify nothing but being a fatass. In the dark you almost whisper something embarrassing to him, _hey Tavros, I’m pretty sure I wanna kiss you;_ you feel forever thankful you didn’t when he groans in his sleep and turns over like he might wake up any second. You can’t picture yourself kissing anyone, anyway. 

You dream of Dave, but in the morning that’s all you can remember. You’re pretty sure it wasn’t a sex dream, though, judging by the unspoiled state of your sheets, so you don’t worry about it. 

All in all, you go to school Monday morning feeling mostly pretty good, at least for another cold, friendless Monday morning in early February. You spot Dave in the crowd as you wait to be let into the building, but for once he doesn’t try his “friendly” schtick, which suits you fine. Maybe he understood it was revenge, somehow, and that maybe he should stop fucking with people. (You don’t know how he would glean that from being framed as a pervert, but it’s not important.) 

You pass him in the hall after homeroom, walking to his locker, and you see him put his hand on the handle before snatching it back. You hear giggles as he leaves the locker untouched and continues on his way; you walk faster. Good. He deserves to be laughed at, to know what it feels like. No, you don’t feel bad, because now you have one less asshole riding you, and maybe he won’t hurt anyone else. 

Things are going pretty okay, even managing to avoid Brandon and his crew at every possible chance, and you’re wondering if you can convince Gamzee to spend his extra swipe on going to Taco Bell downtown again, when you hear an adult voice calling your name. 

“Karkat, can you come with me, please?” You turn around and Mr. Castro arches his brows at you, beckoning you with one hand. “My office.” You squeeze the straps of your bag in uncertainty, although you know there’s only one thing this can be about, and Mr. Castro huffs. “Right now.” 

In Mr. Castro’s office he tells you to sit in curt words, and when he sits across from you he rests his elbows on the desk and steeples his fingers. “A little birdy told me,” he says, clearing his throat, “that you broke into another student’s locker.” 

“And what little birdy was that?” you ask, trying to smooth your face into the most neutral expression possible—or neutral to other people, anyway, because your default face is kind of a sullen one. (Your dad says you came out looking for a fight.) 

Mr. Castro sighs. “Karkat, you’ve never been trouble for me before, besides some yelling in the cafeteria here and there over the years.” You open your mouth to protest, because the “yelling” he’s remembering is you trying to defend yourself against Brandon when you had lunch period with him, but he holds up a finger to silence you. “So please, just, you know, take me through the steps. Tell me just what the hell you were thinking picking the lock on another student’s locker.” 

“Nothing, I guess. I don’t know.” There’s no point in lying about having actually done it, but experience tells you adults never like to hear it when a kid is bullied, and usually look to find ways it’s actually your fault. Fuck that. You twiddle the cuffs of your hoodie, looking at that instead of the dean. 

“Karkat, is there something you know? Something you have to tell me?” You look up, and Mr. Castro is giving you the hardest stare, like he’s trying to see right through your body to the wall on the other side. You snort; good luck with that. Of course, Mr. Castro can’t read your thoughts, and the snort makes him stare even harder, leaning forward until you think his ass is going to pop out of the chair. 

“Nope.” You shrug deeply; you’re not in the mood to be asked what you did that might make Dave “act the way he does toward you”. 

“Alright, play it your way, then. It’s gonna be just detention this time, but one more infraction and I’m calling your parents.” You don’t say anything as he pulls a detention slip down from a neat stack on a shelf to his left, and writes in your name and today’s date before listing your crime and signing at the bottom. You’ve still won, and a single day’s detention won’t hurt you in the long run. You’ll just text Gamzee on your way to reporting so he doesn’t wait up. Mr. Castro holds out the slip, and as your fingers close around the top of the paper, he holds on, giving you one more hard look. 

“I mean it, Karkat. Don’t pick on the new kid.” His words surprise you so much that when he lets go of the slip, you almost drop it. The irony is too rich. You glare at him as you fold the paper in half with a neat crease and sling your bag onto one shoulder, and stalk out wordlessly. 

Maybe he should try having a talk with Dave about picking on people. Or Brandon, that would be even funnier, because neither of those things are going to happen. You barely make it through your last class of the day, your head filled with revenge scenarios against Brandon. It feels more fulfilling now that you’ve gotten back at Dave; you almost even wonder if you could do something to Brandon, but the difference is that Dave is new, and Brandon is surrounded by other jackasses, including your former friend. Fantasies will have to do. 

You text Gamzee quickly, _got detention, cant make it_ , as you sidle along the wall toward detention to keep from getting bowled over by the stream of students leaving for the day. All you get in return is _:o)_ , which means he’s fine. Unsurprisingly, you’re one of the first kids reporting for detention, and you head to the teacher’s desk to hand in your slip and sign into the book. What is a surprise is that the name just above where you sign yours reads _Dave Strider_. 

Sure enough, as you turn toward the rows of desks, there he is. He sits all the way in the back with his cheek resting on his palm, elbow propped on the desk; he doesn’t look too happy to be here, although that’s usually the case with kids in detention. He glances up at the movement you guess he detects up front, and you feel a wave of nausea hit when you see recognition light up his eyes. (His shades are folded on the desk; he probably got yelled at for wearing them in the classroom.) 

“Yo, Karkat,” he says with a smile. “I haven’t seen you in a minute.” Which means no message about picking on others was received, he was just embarrassed, and you’ll never be fucking free. You can spot the offer of false friendship from a mile away; you’ve been fooled once before, and you swore to yourself you’d never fall for that ruse ever again. Of course, it means you haven’t made any new friends since middle school when you met Tavros, but better safe than sorry. 

“What are you doing here?” you ask before you can stop yourself—alright, you were curious, so maybe you didn’t even try to stop yourself. You’ll get your answer, then plant your ass firmly on the other side of the room from Dave Strider. Diagonally. 

“Oh, you know, casual little scuffle,” Dave snorts. “The establishment doesn’t care for that shit too much, though, so here I am.” What a shock. “I was just having a friendly little chat with this suspicious looking dude next to my locker, you know?” Jesus, he’s chatty, and now he’s looking up at you with this quizzical face. “You probably heard about what happened with my locker, right?” 

You just grunt noncommittally, with a shrug to match. 

“I think the dude with the locker next to mine did it.” He taps his chin; a real CSI genius, here. “I’m gonna find out, though.” 

So the dean didn’t tell Dave—or he hasn’t gotten a chance to, yet. You don’t know if you want Dave to know. 

“Jesus, dude, you’re making me fucking jumpy staying standing like that.” He leans over and pats the seat of the desk next to his. “Sit the hell down, huh?” And you do, because he’s got you trapped now; if you move to the other side of the room he’ll yell embarrassing shit until you sit with him, and now he’s going to fuck with you, maybe ask you personal questions to get something to blackmail you with. Shit. 

“So.” Dave cracks his knuckles, and you swallow. “What’re you in for, anyway?” 

“Me?” Stupid answer. 

“No, I’m asking Mr. Vargas over there why he became a teacher,” Dave says as he gestures at the teacher up front, who just flaps his newspaper in response and continues to ignore you both, who are still the only students in the room. “Yeah, you, dumbass!” 

“No reason, really,” you mumble. 

“The fuck you mean, no reason?” Dave snorts. “They put you in here just for being a natural badass or something? Come on, Vantas, don’t play.” 

You can’t fucking stand him. You spent $26 and this asshole isn’t even scathed, is hurting other people if anything because he needs to find out who dared to fuck with him. You want him to hurt like you, want him to know what it feels like to know someone fucking _hates_ you, when someone makes deliberate moves to cause you pain. And you slap your hands on the desk’s surface. 

“So they really didn’t tell you?” you ask with a sharp tone, head turning to stare at him just as sharply. 

“Tell—tell me what?” You hate the way he barely emotes, how even his smiles barely crack the porcelain of his face. You’re gonna make his face twist in a second. “Yo, you know who did it?” 

“Me,” you hiss, and his brows quirk down. “I fucking did it. I set you up, you piece of shit, I spent real American dollars and spent real world minutes to try and embarrass the shit out of you!” You’re leaning out of your seat, fingers tight around the back of the chair and the edge of the desk, and you can feel the heat of your face but for once it’s not out of shame. Fuck, no, you’re _proud_ of the way he seems to sink down, of the realization dawning in his face that his constant attempts to trick you and get under your skin have been for fucking naught because you’re stronger! For once! And for once there’s some real feeling in his features, this look of horror that—

—that you recognize, for one fleeting second that twists your stomach, the face of someone betrayed by a friend—

—that vindicates you, at last, you fucking won! And you’re not going to be fooled by that face, either. You’re not stupid. You pick yourself up and move to the opposite end of the room, leaving him to stew in his shame. As you reach the desk you want, all the way by the windows up near the front, a few more students finally come filtering in, and it doesn’t take long before someone sits right in the middle, blocking your view of Dave hunched over his desk. Not that you’re looking. 

You spend the rest of detention reading a Mercedes Lackey book that you covered with butcher paper so nobody would see what the hell you were reading, although you have serious doubts anyone at this school knows who Mercedes Lackey is. She’s a guilty pleasure of yours, and this turned out to be a very good day indeed so you deserve a little Valdemar melodrama. Vanyel is such a little shit. 

By the end of detention you’re ready to just stroll on home, do some homework maybe, browse tumblr, watch another episode of Escaflowne, and there’s a slice of chocolate cake in the freezer from your dad’s coworker’s birthday he said you could have. You’re totally not gonna defrost it and just bite into it while you’re watching anime. You put your layers back on and hoist your bookbag onto your shoulder, and strut out into the hallway. It’s gonna be a nice evening. 

Something barrels into your side as you pass the boys’ bathroom, and before you realize what’s happening you’re stumbling through the doorway. You have to grab onto a sink to keep from slipping on the tiles. The door slams shut with a heavy finality, and when you look up you’re met with the sight of a furious Dave Strider. Shit. 

“Kind of a cliché, don’t you think?” you babble as you back up toward the radiators, Dave advancing on you with a dark look and fists swinging by his hips. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, bathroom beatdowns are a classic for a reason, but I thought you were a better asshole than that, Strider.” 

But he doesn’t say anything, and as your legs crash against the metal of the radiator covers, a pale hand reaches up to grab you by the collar of your T-shirt and yanks you down to Dave’s level. 

“What the _hell_ do you know?!” he bellows, nostrils flaring. 

“That you’re a supreme asshole,” you retort. “That you’re another brainless, yet somehow smartass piece of shit that just sees me as a target! That I’m sick of taking your shit! That I’m not as much of a pathetic sack of shit as you think, so I _won’t_ take your shit anymore!” You put both your hands over the one grabbing at your shirt, although you’re not strong enough to move it without seriously destroying your shirt. “ _That’s_ what I know!” 

Dave pulls his hand back like you scorched him, staring at you as the anger starts to mix with confusion. “What in the sweet blue hell are you talking about?” he says, choking out a nervous little laugh. “What shit?” 

“Oh, please,” you snap as you straight your collar back out. “You must think I’m dumber than a million sacks of broken hammers, like I’d fall for the old ‘let me pretend to be your friend so I can blackmail you and generally make you feel like shit’ trick. I know exactly how that goes, and I’m definitely not taking it from you.” 

“Pretend?” He looks honestly dumbfounded, and for once he’s actually lost for words, looks like. “What the fuck do you mean by pretend?” 

“All you ever do is talk shit about me and call me names, and then you pretend to be friendly like I’m gonna trust you with personal shit so you can make fun of that, too!” You’ll spell out every way you hate him if you have to. 

“I—what?” Now it’s Dave who turns red, visibly flustered, and you can see him almost reach for the shades that hang from his collar. “Wait, so—so that’s why? Because you thought I was trying to be a dick?” 

“Because you _were_ being a dick,” you correct him. 

“And not for any other reason?” 

“I need another reason? Are you admitting to being guilty of _worse_ shit?” you laugh. “Wait, no, don’t tell me, you’re meeting Brandon tomorrow after school.” 

“I don’t know who the fuck Brandon is,” he says, “but no, just, I’m just clearing this up. That’s literally it.” He holds his hands up. 

“Okay, then yes, I rigged your locker because I fucking hate your guts and I’m sick of you trying to fuck with me.” 

The hands drop, limp at his sides. “Dude, I literally thought we were making friends.” 

“Stop! Just stop, I already told you I’m not falling for it!” 

“I don’t know what kind of trust issues you’ve got crammed in your head,” Dave says, taking a step back, “but honest to god, I’ve just been trying to make _one_ fucking friend at this school. I thought you—I thought you fucking liked our little back and forths, I spent goddamn _time_ at home coming up with new material for you! Gamzee told me you were into that!” He shrugs his shoulders up so high they almost touch his ears. “Jesus, Vantas!” 

“Gam—” You have to stop a minute, because you think you might be about to lose it. “Gamzee? Are you fucking kidding me?” You’re going to send out an astral projection and it’s going to strangle the shit out of Gamzee Makara. “You’re telling me you listened to _Gamzee_ and took him seriously?”

“Wrong move?” There’s that nervous chuckle again. “Look, I’m just saying, I thought we had a thing! I thought we were having fun, I thought you were fucking acting.” There’s a tremor in his hands you almost miss, especially when he shoves them into his coat pockets. “Turns out I’m just like, the worst at social cues, as fucking usual. Just kick me out of society now, maybe things will shape up and we’ll abolish the wage system, or whatever it is Karl Marx was all about, and all wars will end without me to fuck things up. I’ll live in a shack by the sea, and my only friend will be a mule who’ll get so sick of me one day he’ll just walk into the ocean and then hang a right to fake his own death and run away to Florida. Which will serve him right, because Florida is a swampy mess, and I am actually _fantastic_ company.” He jams his thumb into his own collarbone. “But, you know, only to other assholes like me.” He gives you this wan little smile that stabs you kind of to the left of your heart. “Sorry.” 

“...So you really wanted to be my friend?” you ask, trying and failing to keep the pathetic hopefulness out of your voice. “Why _me?”_

“I met Gamzee first, and he said you were a real cool dude,” Dave says with another shrug. “Then I just got kinda hung up on you being this enigmatic dude who wouldn’t open up to me, and uh, I guess now I know why. Shit, haha.” 

You’re quiet for a good moment or two, and so is Dave. You’re so fucked up. You can’t stop thinking about how much you hate yourself, about how much you mess things up, about how paranoid you’ve become that you can’t tell jeering offers of friendship from the real thing. You don’t even deserve to be human. 

“I mean, look,” he says, interrupting the silence, “if you’re willing to try this shit again without the mind games, so am I.” He holds out his hand. “Peace?” 

You look at Dave’s hand like he’s offering you a vat of acid. There’s still that voice that says this is just another elaborate part of the ruse, that if you accept you’re a sucker and you deserve whatever he does to you. Another part of your brain scolds you for being so broken, for not knowing how to trust anymore. 

You tell them both to shut up, and take his hand. You’ll take the chance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO did you enjoy that?? were your questions answered, do you have new questions maybe, are you eager for me to break the rules at work and sit in the corner writing chapter 8 on my phone ahaha
> 
> anyway yeah i should really go to bed especially since i go into work early tomorrow night! as per usual i really appreciate and read each and every one of your comments, they've all been so thoughtful and great!! so please tell me all your emotions and questions and thoughts and stuff, thank you for reading i love you


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> making nice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this took two nights because i've been extra-exhausted for some reason
> 
> i'm almost unemployed!! hooray for only four more nights of my job

The sun is fucking bright in Union Square today, even with shades on, but it doesn’t make anything warmer as you squint at the steps from the half-wall around Washington’s statue. Gamzee sits cross-legged on the wall in nothing more than a hoodie, a cigarette hanging from his lips; he claims he doesn’t feel the cold. Some girl neither you nor Karkat know is brushing his greasy hair into a neat ponytail, as if that will help his appearance any. Gamzee’s high cheek bones and elegant desi nose are kind of a waste on someone who believes in showering so little. 

It’s a frigid Tuesday afternoon, and you actually agreed to hang out with Karkat and Gamzee downtown. Or Karkat agreed to hang out with you and Gamzee; it’s still kind of fuzzy. You still feel kind of weird knowing that Karkat Vantas, of all people, is the one who set you up, and you only have his word that he did it for no other reason than possibly the weirdest revenge scheme you’ve heard of outside a movie or TV show. He keeps looking at you funny, too, in this way like he doesn’t think you’re gonna catch him at it. You don’t know that you believe yet that he doesn’t know about you, but he stopped acting like an asshole, too, so maybe it’s a non-issue. 

Either way, you’re both getting good laughs in over the skaters down at the bottom of the steps. There’s this one kid who just won’t give up, and the other skaters nearby have kind of migrated away from him, like he’s got this aura of embarrassment that’ll infect them. He alternates between riding so fast and hard that his board slips out from under him, and going so gently he barely moves. It’s like he doesn’t understand what “happy medium” means. 

The skater lands on his ass again, and you and Karkat both laugh again, although you notice he doesn’t laugh good and loud until you do, like he’s afraid to be noticed. You cup your hands around your mouth, and yell out, “Get a horse, asshole!” 

Karkat stares at you with this incredulous look before snorting. “Do you even know what you’re saying before you say it?” 

“Man, at least a horse probably wouldn’t make this sad fuck fall on his ass so much. Probably,” you add with a thoughtful expression. “His ass has got to be like, deep purple by now.” 

“The truth is a horse would sense his shitty ability to stay on top of moving objects and run the fuck away before he could even try to mount it, because even a horse is smarter than this dude,” Karkat says, shaking his head. 

“There should be a championship for being shitty at staying on top of moving objects, as you so eloquently put it,” you say. “He’d take the whole competition and walk away with like, better than gold. What’s better than gold? Platinum?” 

“Oh, like you’re gonna do any better than him,” Karkat snorts, and there’s that bitter streak under his words as he glances at you. Maybe bitter isn’t the right word; maybe paranoid fits him better. Like he still doesn’t believe you just wanna be friends, like he doesn’t believe you’re not a bully. 

“Shit yeah, I’m a Strider,” you say as you slip off the edge of the wall. “Watch this.” And you head for the shitty skater in question. 

“What are you doing?” Karkat asks, the alarm clear in his voice as he stands up (no hopping up or down for someone of his height) and almost starts to follow you. Once you start heading down the first set of steps, he does follow you, hunching down and glancing around like he’s watching for snipers as he comes out into the open. 

“Just watch this,” you say as you jog awkwardly down the long flat steps, dodging loungers. It occurs to you that maybe he thinks you’re going to torment this kid, but no, this is gonna be great, and everyone should bear with you. “Watch!” 

And he does, squeezing anxiously at the straps of his bag as you approach the skater, who’s doing these awkward little hip jerks to try and get some momentum on his board. It’s pathetic, and all of Union Square seems to be pointed at this white kid being pathetic. You clear your throat, but he doesn’t pay you any attention, and you see earbuds are at the root of that issue. So you reach out and pop one out. The kid jumps. 

“Yo,” you say, holding up your hand. The skater kid gives you an uncertain wave back, pressing his lips together. “Can I see your board a second?” 

“Why, so you can steal it?” the kid retorts, but you stand your ground wordlessly, hands in your pockets, and his face twitches. “You’re not gonna like, run away with it, right?” 

“Nah, man, if I try to run away I _promise_ my friend up there will knock me out like a loose tooth,” you say, jerking your thumb back Karkat’s way. “Promise.” 

“Can’t you get your own board?” the kid says even as he passes you his own, the little ginger shit, so you snatch it harder than strictly necessary and put it back down on the ground. You don’t know why he picked it up in the first place, but maybe it has something to do with the fact that he is the worst skater Union Square has seen in ages. 

“Attention, everybody!” you shout, throwing your arms up, and Karkat’s hunching down even more like you just fired shots. “Watch me perform the sickest trick possible on this nerd’s board!” Most people stay looking at their phones or books, but a decent handful of people look up, and that’s enough for you. The skater kid backs away nervously, and even some of the other skaters a good few yards away are looking your way. 

You adjust your shades, tug down the collar of your coat, pretend to take out earrings that aren’t there and toss them over your shoulder. Build up is important. Karkat is sitting down like he’s going to have a heart attack. 

And you take one step onto the board. 

The blue sky greets your face as the board shoots out from under your foot, and then the pavement greets your ass. Years of learning how to take a fall keeps your head up and away from the concrete, but the rest of your body is gonna whine later. You can hear people laughing, and when you turn your head you can see Karkat laughing into his hand. 

“This board is cursed!” you shout from the ground, though you make no move to get up and clasp your hands over your stomach. “That’s why this kid can’t skate! Quick, somebody burn it and buy him a board from a legitimate source! Down with skateboards from evil wizards, up with local artisan boards!” 

“You’re an asshole,” the ginger kid tells you, but he’s laughing too as he picks up his board and walks away. You stay lying down, drumming your fingers on your torso. 

“That board was so cursed I can’t move,” you say as Karkat suddenly appears over you. “I’ll be stuck here forever. Tell my sister I love her. Tell my brother to make funeral arrangements, or to pay you to spoon-feed me every day at seven, two and nine o’clock. It’ll be cheaper than healthcare in the modern age, anyway.” 

“That was the most pointless thing I’ve been witness to in ten thousand years,” Karkat says, bracing his hands on his knees as he bends over you. “Truly spectacular in terms of how stupid that was.” 

“So are you gonna spoon-feed me or what?” you ask, and Karkat rolls his eyes before offering you a hand up. You grab on with one hand, swinging up to grab at his shoulder and pull yourself up the rest of the way. He breaks your hold quickly once you’re on your feet, with that slight tinge of red in his face you can tell isn’t because of the cold. “I guess that’s a no, then. Crush my dreams, you fucking tree-dude. You Ent motherfucker.” 

“Tolkien references won’t work on me,” he says as he hurries back Gamzee’s way. He’s doing that thing again with the looking around for enemies. Was that a joke? From Karkat? 

“I don’t know how else to seduce you, I’m a simple robot. Beep boop,” you say as you jog after him. Every one of this dude’s strides is worth one and a half of yours. “Are you a Game of Thrones fanboy, is that it? Will you be my Podrick?” 

He shoots you this baffled look over his shoulder, but he doesn’t relax until he’s back at the wall, where Gamzee has this beautifully coiffed high ponytail that would be great if it wasn’t lank and greasy, too. The girl is gone, maybe because she realized she’s gonna need to wash her hands hardcore. Karkat takes a seat on the wall again, breathing a heavy sigh of relief. 

“I don’t remember any Anne McCaffrey references, if that’s what gets you going,” you say as you hop up beside him. “I thought the Podrick line would work, isn’t he like the cute innocent stable boy or something?” 

“He’s a squire,” Karkat corrects you, looking out over the square. “To Tyrion Lannister.” 

“I don’t know who that is,” you say, trying to look past Karkat to see what the hell he’s got his sights on. You don’t see anything worth noting. 

“The little dude,” Gamzee says from behind you. “He’s the smart one everybody ignores because he’s not normal.” 

“We watch Game of Thrones at Gamzee’s because my dad won’t pay for HBO,” Karkat explains. “And Gamzee’s place accidentally got a free subscription.” 

“So should I be calling you Tyrion to make you swoon?” you say, waggling your eyebrows, and Karkat looks away instantly. It turns out he doesn’t like what he finds there any better, though. 

“Oh, no,” he whispers, shrinking into himself. 

“Karkat, my main man!” you hear, and then this beefy little white boy is swaggering into the space between the wall and Washington’s left side, flanked by these smug-looking Latino-looking boys. And as they come closer, you realize that behind them is noodle-arms Eridan, the streak in his hair a fresh bright violet with a little staining on his hairline. “I heard this was the good place now, endorsed by the great Vantas himself, so me and the boys thought we’d try it out, maybe leave a review on Yelp, you know?” 

“Go away, Brandon,” Karkat mutters, but this Brandon kid isn’t paying him any mind. 

“So you got like, what, your little dropout boyfriend, and the panty-snatcher?” Brandon snickers. “What a nice little crew you got here!” 

“Panty-receiver,” you say loudly, staring at Brandon. 

“What?” He doesn’t look like he likes being interrupted. 

“I said panty- _receiver_ , are you deaf? Ladies so thirsty for me they don’t even throw me their Hanes, they give me the good shit they spent real American dollars on,” you say, still staring him dead in the eye. “I know Victoria’s secret, bruh.”

“Yeah, sure,” Brandon sneers. “Word is you just wear ‘em, faggot.” 

A chill shoots down your spine, but you tell yourself it was just a guess, there is literally _no_ way for anyone at this school to have that kind of specific information. “If that’s what you fantasize about, I can’t stop you from having wet dreams about your senpai,” you say, even louder this time, so people are starting to look. “But damn, son, buy me dinner first!” 

Before Brandon can spit something back, Gamzee rises from the wall, and slinks over to Brandon, just that extra inch or two taller than he can loom successfully. You can’t hear what he says, but Brandon scowls deeply, before glaring at you and Karkat. 

“I got better shit to be doing than engaging with _people_ like you,” he snarls. He whirls on his heel, almost crashing into the other boys who don’t see it coming. They part and follow him toward the steps, Eridan coming in last again. “Eridan, you got the bill at the Chinese place,” you hear from Brandon as they leave. Karkat looks shaken, but at the same time he’s smiling, in a way you don’t think you ever have seen before—not from him, anyway. 

“The hell did you say to him?” you ask Gamzee as he retakes his seat. 

“Stuff,” Gamzee says with a shrug. “Doesn’t matter. He’s gone, so that’s all that matters.” And he lies back along the wall, blowing out a cloud of smoke. 

“He’s kind of a little bitch,” you say as watch Karkat smooth his face out. “Who’s this Brandon dude? Besides an asshole.” 

“That’s pretty much it,” Karkat says, back to his default frown. “He’s a junior, but he’s somehow the most effective bully this century has seen so far. Usually he doesn’t leave me alone until he’s bored.” 

“Man, you’re like, eight feet tall! Knock him the fuck out!” You mime an uppercut. “I’ll rub your shoulders down in your corner and call you a champ and everything.” 

“Yeah, okay, that’ll work out,” he says with a snort. “Wimpy fat boy punches out gym rat! In related stories, the sky has never been blue, and dinosaurs came to this planet in a rocket, the same rocket they left in when they got tired of humanity, and faked the whole ‘extinction’ thing. A few good dinos had to die for the lie of fossilization. ‘Bob was a good T-Rex, and we’ll remember him well,’ they said as they waved goodbye to Earth. ‘He ate a lot of us, but his tiny arms were hilarious. No offense, Ted the T-Rex.’ Yes, that’s what reality sounds like.” 

“You want me to punch him out, then?” you say, driving the knuckles of one hand into the palm of the other. You’re reasonably sure you could take him. 

“Aren’t you like, five feet tall?” Karkat replies, looking you up and down. 

“Five foot six! Caribbean people are short, alright? I don’t even know how you got so tall, aren’t you Mexican or something?” 

“I just got lucky,” he says with another snort, though this one isn’t so derisive. 

“Brandon don’t usually fuck with Karkat when I’m around,” Gamzee says as he takes another puff. “Dude’ll leave us alone the rest of today. You wanna get fries at the place by St. Mark’s, best friend?” 

“Uh, if you’re hungry, yeah,” Karkat says, looking at you suspiciously. You’re mystified. “We can share a size large, maybe.” 

“Man, I love those fries,” you say, sliding off the wall one more time. “Let’s splurge and just all get larges, or something.” 

 

Later on you’re full of fries and on the 1 train home, headphones blasting Hot Sugar as you slump against the wall of the corner seat by the window. Karkat ended up buying no fries, though he hadn’t eaten since lunch as far as you knew, and you and Gamzee both forced him to take some of your fries. Then he just picked at them, one at a time every few minutes while you wolfed yours down. 

For all that Karkat almost ruined your new academic life, he’s not too bad of a dude. He’s got good jokes, and he’s a lot more like you than you previously realized. You think maybe you can stick with this friend. Maybe even tell him about yourself properly one day. Maybe. _Big_ maybe. 

You come home to Rose doing homework on the couch, her laptop balanced on her knees as The Amazing World of Gumball plays at a low volume. She’s not really watching it, which is no surprise given that she often likes to have background noise as she works. 

“And where were _you?”_ she asks, not looking up from her screen. 

“Out with the panties dude,” you say as you walk past her to sling your bookbag and coat into your room, the arms of your coat still hooked through the straps. “We made nice and went to the Belgian fries place.” 

She looks up sharply over the back of the couch. “Is that smart?” 

“The hell do you mean, smart? I told you yesterday what he told me. Dude was just confused about my friendly intentions, is all.” You take a seat on the couch’s arm, and slide back until you’re lying on the couch with your legs hanging off the side. 

“You don’t know that he’s telling the truth. He could be setting you up for something.” She puts her laptop aside on the coffee table, muting the TV. “You need to be careful.” 

“Please, it’ll be fine.” You reach for the remote, because maybe Rose wants to do her work, but you’re all about watching cartoons right after school. “He’s already laughing at my jokes.” 

“What, do you _like_ him or something?” She snatches away the remote, shifting to hang over you and look you in the upside-down eye. “Then you should be extra-careful.” 

“I didn’t say that! Jesus, Rose, will you lay off?” You pull the remote right out of her hands, and turn up the volume on the TV higher than when you walked in. “I swear to god every conversation we have involves you talking about my gender or sexual orientation, usually the first one.” 

“I’m just looking out for my brother,” she sniffs. 

“No, you’re being obnoxious!” You flip onto your stomach to sit up, glaring at her. She looks taken aback; good. “Rose! I fucking _know_ I have a cunt, I know I have to be _careful!”_ You wave your arms around for emphasis on that last word. “Stop trying to analyze me! Stop trying to remind me at every goddamn turn what I am, I _know_ what I am! Stop doing research on Wikipedia, stop asking people on Tumblr what to do about my dysphoria—yes, I _know_ that was you!” you say, jabbing a finger in her direction. “You know I follow that blog, and then you go and lay out like basically our whole life story on anon and expect me to not figure it out? Just stop! Stop!” 

Oh, fuck, she’s crying. Not like, full-on sobbing, because Rose is too stoic for that, but you can see how her face screws up as she bites her bottom lip and tries to stem the flow. “Okay, seriously, stop. Stop that,” you say helplessly, cringing. “Rose, come on. Don’t do that.” 

“Do what? I don’t know what you’re referring to,” she says as she wipes the heel of her hand across one eye. 

“Just—look, did you think I wasn’t gonna get mad?” you sigh. “Or frustrated, at least?” 

“I suppose not,” she says, the last syllable getting caught on a hiccupy little breath. “I’m sorry.” 

“You keep saying you’re sorry, but then you do it again like, the next day sometimes,” you say, folding your arms. “Is it just because my being a dude is like, new and weird to you?” 

She just rolls her lip back and forth, staring at her knees. “I don’t know how to put this,” she says. “It’s... It’s stupid.” 

“Just tell me.” 

“Have you ever noticed, maybe, that I’m the ugly one?” Rose looks up and it’s like a fucking arrow through your chest. “I mean, I know I’m not supposed to care. I’m supposed to be too smart for that.” She laughs gently, and it’s horrible, shot through with sadness and resentment. 

“Who said you were ugly?” you demand, and for the second time today you punch the palm of your hand. “I’ll take ‘em out. Hell, I’ll tell Bro, he’ll take ‘em out with me if he doesn’t just beat me to the literal punch.” 

“Please,” she says, waving you off with a derisive little huff. “It’s nothing so straightforward. Just... I don’t know, Dave, I didn’t want to talk to you about this. I don’t think you’ll like what I have to say.” 

“Okay, but now that doesn’t matter because we’re here, so just tell me.” Your arms unfold and you pop your legs out from under your ass to relax into the cushions. “Tell me just what makes it so hard for you to stop talking about your brother being a big ol’ transsexual.” 

“Ah, yes, that will make me feel comfortable about it,” she snaps. Now her arms get folded. 

“Come on, Rose, I didn’t mean it like that. Just tell me, alright?” 

She sighs hard and deep. “It’s just... And I reiterate, I know I’m supposed to be better than this, but I guess I’m not as good as everyone thinks I am.” Another sigh. “Don’t you remember when you were still a girl?” 

“You mean when I hadn’t told anyone I was a boy,” you say. 

“When you were 14 and dressing in little shorts and tank tops in the summer, yes,” she returns. “You were the hot sister.” 

“Okay, so now I’m your brother, and that leaves you as the only sister, to be as hot or un-hot as you feel like being. What’s the problem?” 

“Goddammit, Dave, that doesn’t make a difference! I’m still—” And she laughs, shaking her head. “Sometimes I just wish we could have swapped bodies at birth, so if you _had_ to stop being a girl, at least the good girl looks wouldn’t go to waste! You’re an hourglass, and I wear a size 18 with no discernible waist. I’m dark, I don’t perm my hair, I even have a bigger shoe size than you.” She’s laughing more, which is starting to make you nervous. “And now you’re a crossdresser! So you get to be prettier than me without even being a girl.” 

You crawl over to your twin, and rise to your knees in front of her. “What are you doing, Dave?” she asks with a frown. “Dave—” But you drape yourself over her until you’re actually hugging her, because you’re an awkward piece of shit. 

“Okay, true,” you admit, “I didn’t like hearing about how you think my ‘girly looks’ are just going to waste, or whatever. That’s true. But!” you add before she can say anything. “All that other stuff is totally legit, like, I’m just sorry you didn’t think you could talk to me about it.” 

“Of course I wasn’t going to tell anyone,” she says dryly from underneath you. “Smart girls don’t care about looks.” 

“Well I think you’re real purdy,” you say, which is what makes her push you off with a laugh. “Anyone who doesn’t think you’re pretty can bite my ass, right before I kick them in theirs.” 

“I mean, it doesn’t matter, really,” she says, but at least she’s smiling. “I don’t care what boys think of me, even if they feel the need to tell me anyway.” 

“So I guess you don’t wanna like, do makeovers for fun or anything like that,” you say, arching your brows at your sister. “I mean, fun for me, anyway.” 

“I wear makeup already, you just don’t notice,” she says. “I think what we should do is ambush Bro when he gets home and put makeup on him.” 

“Okay, wow, that escalated—”

“Don’t you say it! We don’t speak in memes in this household,” she says sternly. 

“So you don’t care what boys think, huh?” You’ve been working on waggling your eyebrows separately from each other, and it’s really paying off right now. You already knew your sister was a lesbian, actually, but she deserves a little teasing back. “Got an eye on a special lady?” 

“Actually,” she says, which is a surprise. “This one girl I made friends with online, and it turns out she goes to Stuy. We’ve been hanging out in real life, mostly in the park.” She puts her arm on top of the couch cushion, resting her cheek against the back of her hand. “Her name is Jade.” 

“Not Harley, is it?” you laugh, purely joking. 

“Well, yes, actually. How did you—?” 

“Oh no way, John’s cousin? I knew she was in the city, but I didn’t think she’d run into either of us.” 

“John, your little childhood friend on the west coast?” 

“Yes, exactly, my little childhood friend on the west coast, Grandma,” you deadpan. “So you think she likes you?” 

“I don’t know. I’m just enjoying the friendship, for now,” she sighs. “Let’s not talk about me and how I can’t get up the courage to ask out a girl. What about you?” 

“What about me?” 

“I don’t know, you said you were making nice with the panties guy. Karl?” 

“Karkat, and that doesn’t mean I’m into him, it just means we made friends. Besides,” you say with a single arched brow, “you’re right, I _do_ have to be careful. Just because he seems actually nice and gets bullied by jackasses doesn’t mean he’s gonna accept what I look like naked. If I wanted to, you know, let him see that. Which I don’t.” 

“Whatever you say,” she says with a smirk, picking up her laptop again. 

“Don’t _do_ that!” you fume, but she’s ignoring you, engrossed in her work again—except for when she glances up and smirks at you again. 

You head off to your room to maybe consider doing some of your backlogged math homework, which is your least favorite to do, which is also why you should probably do it. Instead you flop onto your bed and curse your sister for trying to plant ideas in your head. 

Especially because it’s kind of working, and you waste a whole half hour of your life imagining what it might be like if Karkat Vantas accepted the truth of your body, and if he maybe even wanted to hold your hand, or something dumb like that. It’ll never happen, of course, because you’ll never tell him, but it’s a nice fantasy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DID YOU ENJOY THAT, you know the drill! sometimes comments can even alter the course of the story, so, you know, keep that in mind and tell me all your emotions, thoughts, analyses, even predictions! even if i dont respond to your comment i definitely read every comment, sometimes multiple times because i love them so much. i appreciate every reader!! tosses confetti and goes to bed


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> doritos and gamzee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i kind of struggled with this chapter because i felt like most of it was boring but hopefully you won't feel that way
> 
> i'm spending the rest of the day packing, and then tomorrow i'm off with just a suitcase to scout out a new job and apartment! i may be able to get a chapter or two in within the next month, but i don't want to get your hopes up. moving is a big deal, unfortunately! :(
> 
> but whatever. enjoy!

The best part about Dave’s apartment, easily, is the impressive array of consoles arranged around the TV. Or well, “arranged” might be a kind word, given the mess of wires that surround the TV like a moat. You definitely get a sense, though, of where this family’s priorities lie, given how tiny the apartment is, and how worn the furniture looks. You’ve been friends with Dave for a month, now, and this is the first time you’ve ever been over to his place. He has yet to visit yours. 

“Do you actually play all of these?” you ask, taking a mental catalog. There has to be at least three or four generations of consoles here from varying manufacturers. 

“My brother does,” Dave says as he sidles into the kitchen, where there’s only room for one person at a time, so you definitely keep out. Gamzee is already taking up about half the couch, so you sit next to him. “When he’s not working, I mean. Obviously.” 

“No, I’m sure your brother projects his astral form from whatever job it is he works just to play some Soul Calibur,” you snort. “Maybe one day you, too, will develop the skills necessary to slack off on a separate plane of existence.” 

“I got definite desires to play some Soul Calibur,” Gamzee says, sliding off the couch to inspect the consoles. “Yo, Karkat, pick a number between one and five.” 

“Two,” you say, just before something light and crinkly hits you in the side of the face. You yelp, snatching it out of the air before it can hit the floor, and you find you’re holding a giant bag of Doritos. A few seconds later a second bag nails Gamzee in the face, too, but it just neatly falls into his lap and he laughs. 

“Aw, hell yeah, Cool Ranch is the shit,” he says with a grin as he puts it aside and finds the Gamecube. 

“You’re disgusting,” you say, before Dave comes out of the kitchen with his own bag of Doritos, in some novelty flavor you’ve never seen before. “Do you just subsist off of Doritos?” 

“I have Doritos in my veins, dog, I can’t live without them,” Dave replies as he drops himself on the spot vacated by Gamzee. “We literally have an entire cabinet just filled with bags of different flavors of Doritos.” He tears open his own bag and pulls out a neon red chip to crunch into. “Shit, these are spicy.” Gamzee still hasn’t touched his bag, loading up the game and unrolling an extra controller to plug into the console, but now that Dave is eating you might be okay with opening your own bag of chips. 

You take turns based on whoever loses, which ends up being you and Dave just switching off every other turn to lose to Gamzee again. He’s painfully skilled with Nightmare, even when Dave uses Talim to try and get over him on speed alone. Dave ends up sad when Gamzee does finally crack into his Doritos, because he doesn’t understand the concept of wiping off his fingers before putting his cheese-dusty fingers all over the controller, and the indigo controller slowly turns a pale orange. 

“Dude, I brought out like, an entire roll of paper towels,” Dave says as he points at said roll sitting behind Gamzee on the coffee table. “Come on, my bro’s gonna kill me if you get cheese schmutz all up in the controller.” 

“Ain’t gonna get fucked up, don’t worry,” Gamzee says as he beats Kilik into the earth. “Get quiet, brother.” 

“I don’t know how you put up with this, dude,” Dave grumbles your way. “This dude is a disaster.” Nightmare wipes out the last of Kilik’s HP on-screen, and Dave groans, tossing the controller aside as he gets up. 

“I didn’t know you were having a playdate,” a feminine voice says from the doorway, and you look up, instinctively hunching down. You were prepared to deal with Dave and Gamzee and really not anyone else. It’s Dave’s sister, sweeping into the room with a face that’s a cross between judgmental and smug. “I was wondering when you’d finally want to show off Bro’s collection to your little friends.” 

“Ah, yes, ‘little’ friends, because we’re totally not the same age, being twins and all,” Dave says as he flops beside you. “In fact, if my memory isn’t totally shot, I was born a whole day before you, Rose!” 

“You were born a whole four minutes before me, and just happened to be born before midnight,” Rose says with a sour little smile that sends a chill through you. “Sometimes Mother Nature makes mistakes and sends the wrong twin out first.” You’re so distracted by Dave’s twin’s arrival that you forget it’s your turn to get your ass beat by Gamzee, and Rose is the one picking up the controller Dave dropped. 

“Well ain’t you a welcome change in the roster,” Gamzee greets her with a sleepy grin, and Rose just flashes him another little smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. She selects Ivy, and Gamzee sticks with his choice of Nightmare. 

He loses in less than three minutes. 

“Well dang, sis, that was…unexpected,” he admits as he rises. “Yo, who’s got next?” 

“Not with that controller,” Dave says, wrinkling his nose. “Thanks for dethroning the tyrant, Rose.” 

“Oh, don’t worry, my reign will be even more brutal,” she says. “But I’m sure none of you boys would be willing to test that theory, even with a clean controller.” 

“Nah, my ass is sore enough.” Dave hops up, stretching as if he’s the one who’s been doing all the fighting, and not pixel people on a screen. 

“Okay, then get out. I’m going to play through more Story Mode, and I don’t need a bunch of dumb loud boys throwing me off.” She doesn’t look away from the screen as she makes shooing motions with one hand. “Go away.” 

“That’s not fair, Rose, I’m the one who’s got friends over.” 

“And just what were you going to do in the living room that you can’t do in another room?” she says with a sharp look Dave’s way. 

“Fine, you be that way. I’ll get Gamzee and Karkat to sit on your bed so we can face each other while we talk about what a slob you are, and then we’ll get into your laptop and see what kind of fanfiction you’ve been writing when you thought everybody was asleep,” Dave says, already heading toward the back of the apartment. “That’s okay with you, right?” 

Rose just shoots him the most resentful look you think you’ve ever seen on a human face, and without a word she turns off the Gamecube and the TV, drops the controller, and walks past Dave to shut herself in the room you now guess she shares with Dave. 

“Man, you ain’t had to kick her out,” Gamzee says. “She seemed like a cool chick, your sis.” 

“If she ever had friends over, I’d leave her alone to it, because I’m,” and he raises his voice, “too cool to be a selfish dick!” You hear a muffled _whatever_ in response, and Dave just smirks. “She never does, but that’s entirely her problem.” 

You can see, in some part, where Dave gets his thing for comebacks and sharp remarks; it’s probably no help that Rose is clearly better at it. While Gamzee may be disappointed that Rose is out of the room, you’re fine with not seizing up with the intimidation you feel radiating from her. You shiver just thinking about her. 

“So dude,” Dave says, the slyness you hear in just those two words snapping you back to reality. “Were you seriously checking out my sister while we were having a fight?” He sidles up to you with an impressive display of eyebrow-waggling. You didn’t know he could move his brows independently of each other. 

“What? No! No, definitely not.” It’s too late—you’re already blushing at just the suggestion, and Gamzee literally points and laughs. “No! I was not!” 

“Look, bruh, that was either terror or lust in your eyes,” Dave says, matter-of-fact. “Or both, given it’s Rose. I can totally imagine some dumbass dude trying to ask her out on a date while he cries in fear for his life.” 

“I’m not _afraid_ of her,” you snap, which is a lie, and also not helping your case, you realize. Dave is laughing now, too. 

“Okay, well, I have bad news for you, then, because my sister isn’t into dudes in the least,” Dave says, pressing a thumb up under his shades to wipe away a tear of laughter. “I know she’s cute, though, even if she’s nosy as hell.” 

“Leave me alone!” You’re doing your level best to sink into the couch, but given your bulk it’s not really working. 

“Man, Strider, you got some kinda jokes on you,” Gamzee chuckles. “You know Karkat ain’t into ladies, either, right?” 

Oh, you’re _so_ going to strangle Gamzee later, because that _so_ wasn’t his to disclose. You don’t even bother glaring at him, looking at Dave in your panic instead. 

“Well no, I haven’t updated my gaydar in a while. I get annoyed agreeing to the terms and conditions so many goddamn times,” Dave says with a shrug, but there’s this flash of—is that fear?—in his face, something you can’t quite pin down that automatically riles up your paranoia. 

“So alright, if you’re not digging on my sister, and you’re into dudes, who _are_ you digging?” Dave asks, thankfully keeping his eyebrows in check this time. 

“Who said I was? Wait—where are you going?” you say as Gamzee rises, thumbing under his nose as he lumbers off toward the kitchen end of the apartment. 

“Brother’s gotta piss sometime, Karkat.” And he disappears. 

So now you’re alone with Dave, who has given up on subtlety and is violently waggling his eyebrows at you again. “Man, I know you like _someone_ , a dude like you who blushes that much can’t not be a total romantic. Gamzee told me you were all into that shoujo anime, Karkat.” 

“You find out an awful lot of shit about me from Gamzee,” you grumble, your earlier thought of strangling Gamzee escalating to full-on evisceration. “I’m not, though.” 

“Not anyone?” Maybe you can convince Dave to let you sleep over sometime, so you can shave those stupid eyebrows right off. 

“I mean, I used to? But I got over it months ago,” you say with your own shrug. “You haven’t met him.” 

“Did he turn out to be a total wad?” Dave sets his shades aside on the coffee table, and rests his cheek on his hands against the top of the couch. “I can punch him, bro.” 

“No, just...” You sigh, crossing your arms. “I mean, we’re still friends, and we still hang out a lot. It’s not a big deal.” 

“Nobody just gets over a crush like that without there being a specific reason, though, people don’t function like that.” Dave scoots closer, stroking his chin with a cartoonish frown. “Tell me about your feelings, Herr Karkat.” 

“He just told me he’s not into dudes _or_ ladies or, you know, anything in between. I mean, not because I told him or anything,” you add hurriedly, because you don’t wanna come off as some kind of tragedy. “He was just telling me about yet another person telling him they had a crush on him, and how he just wants to exist as a computer or a sentient cloud that people won’t be sexually interested in because he doesn’t wanna kiss anybody. So, you know, because I’m not a complete masochist, and also can actually be sensitive toward the needs of my friends, I didn’t say anything, and I got over myself.” You feel like you’re going to shrug yourself out of existence if you keep this up. 

“I don’t know how someone would _not_ wanna kiss other people and wanna get kissed back,” Dave snorts as he shifts to face the TV again. “Besides self-esteem issues, you know.” 

“Some people just don’t want to, it doesn’t mean you have to be a douchelord about it!” you huff, which startles a frown out of Dave. “ _I_ have self-esteem issues. Tavros is a chill dude who just feels asexual about other people, and that’s his business!” The leather of the couch creaks as you clench your fists over it, your nails raking loudly. 

“Whoa, okay, sorry. I didn’t mean it like that, that was way outta line,” Dave says, throwing up his hands. “Sorry. I’m sorry, dude. Chill.” 

“I’m chill,” you mutter. “I’m an ice-themed villain in a goddamn comic book.” 

“Well, uh.” For once, Dave is lost for words, and he leans forward to pick up his shades before putting them right back down. “Maybe, you know, someone already likes you, and you just gotta find out about it, and, uh, maybe them liking you will make you like them back, you know?” 

“What?” 

Thankfully Gamzee returns in that moment, fiddling with his phone as he approaches. “I got a thing I gotta attend to,” he says, slipping his phone into his pocket. “Oh, dang, did I interrupt something?” 

“No, definitely not,” you say as you jump to your feet. “What’s up?” 

“Like I said, a thing what needs my special care and attention. No chance I could get you as my chaperone to come hang at Chez Makara after the thing, is there?” He picks up his hoodie from the armchair and shrugs into it. 

“No, that’s doable,” you say as you mirror his actions and pull on your jacket. It’s a cold February still. 

“You guys abandoning me that quick, huh?” Dave sighs. “It hasn’t even been two hours.” 

“It ain’t about you, bro, I promise,” Gamzee says with a hearty clap on Dave’s shoulder. “You ain’t invited this time because I already got my chaperone, but I’ll take you next time, more like a bodyguard, right?” 

“Man, please, nobody’s intimidated by my short ass,” Dave says, smirking as he pushes Gamzee’s hand off. “Karkat’s got the bodyguard look down pat. Get the hell outta my living room.” 

“Peace out,” Gamzee agrees, padding toward the door to grab his dinky drawstring bookbag. “Come on, Karkat.” 

You’re left thinking about the awkward note you left on with Dave as you follow Gamzee to the subway station, and it distracts you from conversation on the ride downtown. You don’t think you’ve ever actually seen him so off his game—Dave Strider _stammering_ , for chrissakes. Gamzee tells you to wait outside the McDonald’s, leaving you alone to think about the fact that usually that level of nosiness about crushes is reserved for people investigating your availability. But you shake your head as if that’ll make those thoughts fall out; there’s no way anyone would actually like you, especially without convincing in the form of you fucking _pleading_ for a chance. 

Gamzee comes back out with a similar bookbag strapped to his back in same color scheme, but dirtier and sporting a different logo. He presses a five dollar bill into your hand, which will cover your ride to his place and your ride home now that your student card is out of rides. 

“So what’d I interrupt when I got outta the john?” Gamzee wants to know as he locks the front door behind you. “You jumped up but fast, so I knew it had to be something.” 

“You interrupted precisely jack shit, which you would understand if you weren’t so determined to not only jump to conclusions, but fucking _out_ me without my permission!” you hiss. “Who told you it was okay to just say that, you literal _fuck_ nugget?!” 

Gamzee just shrugs as he flings his hoodie into a distant corner. “Man, you need 100 grams of chill and another 100 of calm the fuck down,” he says. “Dave told me he and his sis are twins right down to the homo gene, he only got eyes for dudes.” 

“Oh. Well, I didn’t fucking know that, did I? Which is _good_ , because you shouldn’t just out people like it’s no big fucking deal like that!” You huff as you settle onto his couch, tossing your jacket and bag onto the nearby chair. 

“Man, don’t be that way,” Gamzee says, leaning up against you. You lean, too, supporting yourself on the arm of the couch, and he drapes himself over your hip like a huge, ungainly cat. He’s probably the only person you don’t assume is thinking nasty thoughts about your body when he touches it. “I wouldn’t’ve done it if I didn’t know you were all in the cradle of safety with Dave knowin’ you got feelings about dudes only.” 

“Fine,” you sigh. “You’re forgiven _this_ time, but don’t do it again. Put something on.” 

“You still get those dreams about Dave?” Gamzee asks as he feels for the remote in the cushions behind him, and turns on the TV. 

“Wh—no! Jesus, don’t make me sorry I told you about those.” At least when Gamzee’s down there using your hip as a pillow he can’t see the heat creep into your face. 

“I ain’t tryin’ to play matchmaker, I just like the sight of happy friends, is all.” 

“Just because he turns out to be gay and just because I _guess_ I’m gay doesn’t mean we have to date each other, and it especially doesn’t mean he’s not going to choke and die on his own puke at the mere _thought_ of seeing me naked, much less handle the reality.” You snatch the remote from him and turn the volume up. “Drop it, Gamzee.” 

“But like, what _if_ the dude was diggin’ on you hardcore?” Gamzee presses still, raising his voice over the sound of the Chiller channel. “What if—”

“What don’t you understand about _drop it?!_ ” you shriek, pushing at the top of Gamzee’s head. He sits up instantly, looking at you with the face of a hurt animal, and he pulls his dirty hair in front of his face, one of his favorite defense mechanisms. “Gamzee, don’t be that way. I didn’t mean to yell.” 

“What you need,” he mumbles, “is some relaxation.” He gets up from the couch, heading for his room. “Some chill, some bud, some goddamn sit-you-down-and-get-over-yourself.” 

“Look, I’m sorry for yelling, okay? We can just watch a horror movie, do something you like. I can’t smoke today, my dad isn’t working as late, and it’s way too late in the day. Gamzee!” You follow him, grinding your teeth. He disappears around the corner into the area with all the bedrooms. 

Of course, you mean to go into his room, which is the only one of the three not off-limits to you. But one of the other doors is just open enough to look inviting, and you think you hear him in there. In his brother’s room. 

You push open the door, and get hit by a wave of stale air. “Gamzee?” you ask, wondering why he’d go in here instead; he must have a stash in here. “I don’t see you.” The bed is neatly made, the walls are decorated with what look to be Japanese horror movie posters, and in the corner are a stack of canvases leaning against the wall. The one you can see is painted with muddied dark purples around a decapitated brown body inflicted with numerous stitched wounds. A small square canvas rests against the corner, but it faces the other painting. 

“That’s because you’re in the wrong motherfucking room,” he hisses from behind you, and it feels like your skin jumps up before you do. “The fuck you think you’re doing?” Bony hands grab and spin you; this doesn’t look like your friend anymore, expression deadly. 

“I thought you went in here, I thought I heard you in there,” you stammer, tearing away from his grasp. “I’m sorry, Jesus! Don’t turn this into a federal fucking issue.” 

“I told you that’s my _brother’s_ room,” he says, crossing his arms without changing his features. “Ain’t a reason for me to be in there. Can’t be disturbing it, or it ain’t gonna be ready for when Kurloz gets home.” 

“You know, Kurloz is _never_ home,” you snap before you can stop yourself. “Do you even _have_ a brother?” 

“Yes!” Gamzee bellows, backing you against the wall in this tiny hallway as his hands slam on either side of your head. “Yes, I have a motherfucking brother! He ain’t home right now, I fucking told your ass! But he's only got a year until he’s served minimum sentence, and I can tell you that dude is on his _best_ motherfucking behavior!” 

“Sentence?” you ask in a small voice. 

Gamzee deflates with a sigh, and this time you do follow him into his room. When he sits on his bed it’s less like a person sitting and more like a cooked noodle falling to the kitchen floor, and you sit next to him (gently, so as not to jostle him). “He’ll be coming home soon, so we just gotta keep it nice and neat and clean for him,” he mutters, easing his head onto your thigh. 

“What’s he in prison for?” you ask quietly, drawing his hair out of his face and behind his ear. 

“Some dude mouthed off to him, and Kurloz _happened_ to hurt him bad enough for it to kill him,” he tells your knee, but the quaver in his voice tells you he knows that’s just the defense lawyer’s version that wasn’t good enough to keep him from being convicted. “He got murder three.” 

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” you say, one hand coming to rest on his shoulder. “Did you actually think I would give a shit, like enough that we’d stop being friends?” 

He snorts. “Ain’t nobody wanna be friends with the dude got a brother in prison except the _wrong_ kinda people I ain’t need to be associating with.” 

“Yeah, well, I’m still your friend, so I guess you’re at least a little wrong,” you say, flicking him across the back of his ear. “You wanna finish watching that movie?” 

“Can we actually, uh...” You can feel him swallow. “In a minute, okay?” 

“Yeah. Alright.” You pat him on the shoulder. “Whenever.” 

Five minutes pass, and Gamzee looks up. “But seriously, bro, you and Dave, it could be good.” And you groan and push him off as he laughs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anyway i hope that answered some questions! ahh you know the drill, comments not only lift my spirits and motivate me to write sooner but sometimes even change the story! (full disclosure, CredibilityProblem's commentary about gamzee is the reason i added in extra development for him) tell me all your feelings, make predictions, etc
> 
> and thank you as always for reading c:


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> nerdbreath, also meenah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i really hate jobhunting and i cant really bother looking for an apartment until i get one. waiting for some emails back about interviews though, so fingers crossed!!! i wrote some smithybob to take my mind off it so here u go

The first time you met Meenah, you thought it meant your brother was bisexual—and honestly, you weren’t kind to her because of it. Eventually you blurted out your assumptions, though, and got literally laughed out of the room at the tender age of twelve. She’s Dirk’s best friend, and also the coolest girl you know, if not the coolest person flat out. She and your brother dream of opening your own tattoo and piercing parlor, but for now, he works for the MTA, and she works as a waitress at some nasty trendy bar she hates on thoroughly whenever she’s off the clock. You heard something once, maybe, about her coming from money and running away from that life, but nobody ever confirmed it. 

The point is, she’s standing in your room right now on a Saturday afternoon, listening to your stupid boy problems you’d rather die than express to Dirk. 

“I’m a fucking disaster,” you moan, letting your head sink into your hands. “Everything I fucking said the last time we saw each other offended him. I’m pretty sure he’s back to hating me.” 

“I’m pretty sure he’s not,” Meenah says with a dry arch of her brows, ashing out onto the fire escape. “What’s the last thing he said yesterday?” 

“The word ‘what’ while staring at me like I was a goddamn hydra growing out a few extra sets of heads,” you say, falling back on your bed. “I’m a disaster.” 

“Kid, your problem ain’t bein’ a disaster,” she laughs, blowing smoke out the window. “Or well, alright, a little bit being a disaster. You gotta be direct. I know you teenagers ain’t real good with that idea, but believe me, you get onboard that train of adult thought earlier, you’ll be happier that much sooner.” 

“Okay, but being direct gives him a direct way to reject me, is the problem there,” you point out. 

“What’s so great about this kid, anyway, that rejection would be the end of the world?” Another puff of her cigarette. 

“I dunno,” you say. “Nothing, I guess. Besides being like, painfully smart, I guess, and also ridiculously high levels of funny, but in ways where you can’t fucking tell him that because either he’ll get all bashful in a pissed of way, or he will literally never shut up about how great he is, and there’s no way to figure out which one he’s gonna do.” You pick at the edges of your pillowcase. “He’s also albino, like me, so I don’t have to fucking explain my general appearance, so that’s cool.” 

“So he sounds like he’s shaping up to be a good friend,” Meenah says. “Is that it?” 

“He’s tall,” you mumble. “Really tall. And I know, like, I’m supposed to think being fat is gross and unattractive, but I think he’s cute anyway, or—no, that sounds wrong.” You accidentally pop a seam on the side of the pillowcase in your agitation, and sigh. “More like it’s part of why he’s so fucking attractive to me.” You glance at Meenah. “You know you’re basically the only adult I can spill my guts to about what I find attractive and not feel weird, right?” 

“Please, I think about what an honor you’ve bestowed on me every day of my life,” she says as she finally puts her cigarette out. 

Of course, there’s still things you wouldn’t tell Meenah, especially because you’re pretty sure you wouldn’t tell anyone. When you fall asleep you think about what it would be like to fall asleep next to Karkat, or even under him, which falls under “shameful secret” in your book. Sometimes when he’s talking you think about biting his lips, and then you have to crack some joke about how he’s even more verbose than you are, and how he’s gonna put you to sleep, all to cover for how you phased out watching his full pink lips moving. 

It’s embarrassing, frankly. There’s nothing dignified about having a crush, especially in the way it sneaks up on you like a goddamn coward. You were certain you and Karkat were destined to be pretty good friends, maybe even best friends. Then he mentioned one day how he expects to be alone forever, because, “well, just look at me”—and it hit you once he left for the night that you wouldn’t mind proving to him that he definitely isn’t someone destined for lifelong loneliness. 

You tried to put it out of your head, especially given how much it seems like a gesture of pity. Nobody deserves anything based in pity, least of all Karkat. You tell yourself often that maybe you should work on not just suppressing those ideas, but maybe finding someone cool for Karkat. You know, play matchmaker, see your new friend happy. 

Happy, specifically, with someone with a normal body, someone who won’t have to explain why certain parts are built the way they are. Someone who could just throw themselves right into loving Karkat. 

The problem is that the idea takes root quickly, deep tendrils in your brain holding strong, and you miss the majority of your teachers’ words when you instead think about what you could do to make Karkat smile. You tried to at least prune your feelings for a while, keep them in check in some way, but then Karkat had to go and yell at the screen when Cher referred to Chaz Bono as her daughter, _hello, your precious baby is a boy, what the fuck is your damage,_ and it was over, as pathetic as that definitely is. 

“Look, Dave,” Meenah says, bringing you back to reality as she walks over to your computer chair and takes a seat. “I’m not worried about this Karkat dude rejecting you so much as I’m worried about other reactions he could have. I mean, look, I know Dirk taught you how to defend yourself, but I swear to god I will tear this kid’s nuts off if he so much as utters the word ‘girl’, and the punishment scale only gets worse from there.” She mimes tearing Karkat’s nuts off with a particularly excited grimace, and you cringe. 

“He won’t do that,” you murmur. “I’m mostly sure he wouldn’t.” 

“Mostly?” 

“Look, mostly is what got Obama in office, so I figure mostly can work for a brother who just wants a little love and affection,” you say, sitting up. 

“This whole family,” she says, shaking her head. “You wouldn’t know a succinct sentence if it bit you in the ass.” 

“If a succinct sentence bit me in the ass, I’m pretty sure I’d realize I was in the worst game ever created, as in Virtual Reality Scrabble, and I’d get my ass on the run looking for a save point to get the hell out already. All gerunds swinging exclamation points at me, all me parrying with my upgraded interrobang that isn’t even strictly legal in the game, all armoring up with an airtight legal defense—”

“Alright, jesus, fuck, save me,” Meenah groans. “Stop already. You’re worse than Dirk and your sister put together.” 

“I got the gift,” you say with a shrug and a smirk. 

“Yeah, well, you gotta set that gift aside to tell this kid what you want,” she retorts, wheeling a little closer. “Like, okay, pretend I’m him. Make me realize you wanna date me.” And she stares at you unhelpfully. 

“What, like, off the top of my head? How the hell do you expect me to do that?” 

“The same way you just came up with all that bullshit about the most dangerous game of Scrabble. Come on. I’m Kitkat Vantas—”

“His name is Karkat!” 

“—And you’ve got my undivided attention, like I am literally not going anywhere until you tell me what strong feelings are on your mind, and I won’t take any obvious bullshitting for an answer. And yes,” she adds, when you open your mouth to defend yourself, “it’s _really_ fucking obvious when you’re bullshitting.” 

You swallow, leaning back on stiff arms, and you try to obey. “Shit. Okay, uh. Karkat,” you say, staring awkwardly at what is most definitely Meenah, “I think that, you know, sometimes when people think they’re gonna be lonely forever, because they think they’re ugly or too big of a jerk, they’re actually wrong, and...” 

“Wrong,” Meenah says, blowing hair out of her face with a disappointed expression. “When I say direct with no bullshitting, you think I’m kidding? Come on, kid, I’m trying to help you here.” She flicks you between the eyes, a little less gently than she could have. “Try again.” 

“This isn’t fucking easy!” you snap, and you get rewarded with a second, even stronger flick. “Ow! Jesus!” 

“Don’t curse at adults,” she admonishes. “I’m allowed to curse, you’re not.” 

“I literally cursed the entire past hour and you didn’t care.” 

“Who’s the adult here?” She spins around a couple times in your chair. “Try again. Tell me, Karkat, how much you wanna bone me.” 

“Meenah! Yo, whoa!” 

“What’re you gonna tell him, Dave?” she cackles. 

“That he’s some fish-obsessed freak with weird taste in friends and a lot of piercings!” You hurl a pillow her way, and it hits her smack in the kisser, but she just tosses it over her shoulder and spins the chair some more as she laughs. 

A part of you tells you you’re being ridiculous. You’ve been real, proper friends with Karkat for barely even a month; that’s not enough time to develop deep feelings, not in the real world. That shit only happens in romcoms. You should definitely take a big mental ax to the big obnoxious tree in your head, leaved with how much you want to lean your head on Karkat’s shoulder, and how much you want to hear him say he doesn’t care about the shape of your body right before he kisses you. It might not be too late after all to do away with this whole stupid plant metaphor and just be Karkat’s friend. 

But you see him briefly when you get out of lunch period, and he talks to you about how some friend of his named Sollux makes fun of his fledgeling efforts at coding, and the way your heart jumps into your throat when he looks at you tells you it’s definitely too late. You’re fucked. 

You text him in the middle of the class you have after lunch, asking if he wants to come over after school. You know Rose is going to be hanging out with Jade, and while you definitely wish your twin some luck there, you’re mostly just grateful for the window it gives you to be alone with Karkat. If he says yes. 

He texts back that Gamzee is having one of his need-to-be-alone days, so the answer is no. You reply that Gamzee is not an essential part of this gathering, just Karkat is fine. You don’t get a response for the rest of the period. In fact, you don’t get a response until the end of the day, waiting the entire fifty minutes of tenth period for Karkat to get out of class. 

“Gaming will probably be a hundred percent less gross without Gamzee around,” Karkat remarks as he approaches. “Let’s play something a little higher tech, though.” 

You ask him about his friend Sollux on the train, and that sets Karkat off on a monologue about what an utter nerd Sollux Captor is that lasts the rest of the trip. Like Karkat’s big brother, Sollux got into Stuyvesant, and sometimes Karkat can’t help but resent having such a smart friend who thinks he’s so stupid. Sometimes, Karkat admits when the train empties out a little more, he stops talking to Sollux for a few days because he can’t stop comparing himself, and he misses Sollux the whole time. 

“Man, I kind of get that feeling, though,” you say as you kick an empty soda bottle away on the sidewalk. “My sister’s a genius, and my big brother’s a robotics expert that could be doing way better than a job doing track work, and then there’s just me with literally no skills.” 

“What do you mean, no skills?” Karkat snorts. He hasn’t been to your place enough times to register the extra turns you lead him on that keep you both away from the stoop squad. “I thought you made music and were into photography. I mean, look, maybe on Planet Fuckwad, that’s considered unskilled, but down here on Earth, we call that actual talent.” 

“Please.” The bottle ended up just rolling a good twenty feet in front of you, and you give it another kick as you reach it again. “It doesn’t take brains to push a button on a camera or mix some stupid My Little Pony samples.” 

“Okay then, asshole, I’ll just be in the corner with my total, _actual_ lack of skills, watching you actually be creative in some fucking way,” he snaps. “You can’t be even a little bit grateful for what you’ve got?” 

“I’ll tell you what your skill is,” you say as you turn the key to your building door, and you bat your eyelashes cartoonishly. “It’s being devastatingly handsome. Oh, Karkat-kun!” you yell as you pretend to swoon against the lobby wall. “Please put your magnificent yaoi hands all over me!” 

“Holy shit, you’re the biggest piece of shit I’ve ever met!” Karkat shouts in return in mock-surprise, but he laughs when he shoves you into the elevator. 

“I don’t think my hands are big enough to make me the seme, plus you’re the taller one,” you say as the doors close and you press your floor number. “There’s strict rules about this, you know.” 

“I don’t even have words for what a terrific mud-sucking dumbass you’re being right now,” Karkat sighs. 

“You’re right, I forgot the zinfandel and a candlelit dinner,” you say with a rueful hand to your forehead. “Can you find it in your heart to forgive me?” 

“Not without at least ten ponies, to start,” he says as he exits the elevator and heads for your door. “Ten ponies, six of them with cutie marks replicated perfectly from the Mane Six, and one spray-painted to look like a zebra.” 

“First off, I can’t believe you know a term like Mane Six, and second, that sounds like animal cruelty.” You open the door, and shoulder your way in. “You’ll have to come up with a different way to forgive me, buddy.” 

“Never.” He sweeps past you to toe off his shoes in the entrance with little grunts, and there’s this weird pause in time where your heart feels like it’s hiccuping. You’re hyper aware of Karkat as a person, a person standing in your hallway hanging up his coat, tall and big and probably thinking about more ways to incorporate My Little Pony into his next comeback. In this moment between seconds you’re overwhelmed with warm feelings, an amalgamation of stupid little things like wondering what direction he combs his hair right out of the shower, if he drinks the milk at the bottom of his cereal bowl, if he would stroke the top of your hand with his thumb when he holds it. 

It’s not like you don’t wonder these things all the time. But sometimes just looking at him sucks the life out of you in a way you welcome, puts a painful lump in your throat that has nothing to do crying. 

“I like you,” you blurt out, this weird strangled voice that betrays too much of your girl voice. It’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever said, nothing that fits in with your constructed smooth persona, and that lump in your throat twists with anxiety. 

“I know, I’m literally the greatest person you’ve ever met,” Karkat snorts as he drops his bookbag and moves further into the apartment. 

You hang up your own jacket, frowning. “I mean like, Hey Arnold style liking, jackass. I like-you like-you. I got a terminal case of the likes, dude, and you’re the one who infected me.” 

“Okay, you can stop now with the whole pretending to be gay for me thing,” Karkat calls out as he heads for your room. “I know you think it makes you look supportive or tolerant or something, but it’s legitimately getting old.” 

Karkat honestly doesn’t believe you, and it makes you bold. “I’m not pretending, dude,” you say as you jog after him. He’s taken a seat on your bed, checking his phone quickly. You close the door, suddenly feeling like whole apartment is too big for what you have to say. “I’m so fucking gay for you I’m about to transmogrify into a rainbow.” 

“I said stop,” Karkat growls, putting his phone on your nightstand. “Do you think this is funny, like the fact that I’m probably never going to be in a relationship is a stupid little joke?” 

“I’m trying to tell you—” 

Karkat whips his hand through the air, closing it into a fist. “Stop! Fucking stop! I know you think making fun of people is like, a weird form of platonic affection, but Jesus, not about this! Not about fucking _this!”_ He’s gone pink in the face, and for once it’s not from blushing. 

“I’m not making fun of you!” you say, but a nervous little laugh escapes at the end and his face goes from pink to red. He rises from your bed to tower over you—and for once you actually feel intimidated by Karkat Vantas. 

But he doesn’t hit you, not that you really expected him to; he doesn’t even scream, which you _were_ expecting. He shoves past you, making you stagger to one side, and yanks the door open. “Text me tonight if you feel like apologizing and doing it right. I’m giving you _one_ more chance, Strider,” he spits as he stalks toward the front door on long legs. You have to run to catch up. 

“Karkat! Would you fucking slow your roll?” you say as you reach for his sleeve. “Listen to me!” 

“Get off me!” He jerks his arm away, glaring down at you. “I said I’m leaving!” And he does bend down to pick up a shoe, leaning against the wall so he can pull his foot up to put it on. You knock the shoe out of his hand, and he looks up with the purest rage you’ve ever seen in his eyes. 

But you’re going to make him listen. 

“I’m trying to express you this sincere emotional shit at you all romcom style like you fucking like, and you’re making me scream it out instead!” you shout, grabbing him by the cuffs of his sweatshirt. “As if you’re the only faggot in all of New York, or even in the school!” 

“You’re what?” Karkat’s breathless as he stares at you, his frown evolving into a wide eyed look of horror. 

“I’ve been crushing on you for like, almost the entire month we’ve actually been friends, you dumb paranoid sack of shit!” you say as you shake his wrists. “I invited you over without Gamzee because I wanted to tell you, and instead you make it a federal fucking issue!” 

“You’re taking this joke way too far,” and now it’s Karkat’s turn to giggle nervously. 

You throw your hands up with a frustrated roar. “What the fuck do I have to do to make you believe me?” you say as Karkat collects his now-freed hands to himself. He’s still looking at you like you really are a fucking hydra, sprouting more screaming heads than you know what to do with. “I just—Jesus, Karkat, you think this is easy for me?” 

But he just shakes his head, apparently speechless, and you groan. 

“People don’t like me, not like that, not unless it’s a joke,” he says at last, so quiet you don’t notice at first. “I know what I look like, and how I act, Dave.” 

“I like both,” you say about as gently. You want to take his hands and squeeze them; you keep your hands to yourself. 

“I’m fat, and too big all over, and my albinism makes me look like a really ugly white person,” he says to his fingers as he pulls each in turn, cracking the knuckles. “I’m paranoid. I have a fuse so short it’s almost fucking invisible. Don’t try to tell me that’s attractive.” 

“Karkat,” you say. “Don’t make me get actually seriously romcom on you and list all the dumb little things I like about you, because I will, and it’ll embarrass the shit out of us both.” 

“Maybe you just like me because I’m your first friend at this school who knows how to bathe,” Karkat says with a little laugh, this one a bit less nervous. “You don’t actually know any better.” 

“Just accept my feelings, nerdbreath.” Now you do reach for his hands, and although he still gives you a look like he expects your fingers to turn into snakes, he lets you. You squeeze—he squeezes back. You’re pretty sure your heart is about to teleport out of your chest to save itself. 

“I guess,” he admits with the tiniest of smiles. And that’s enough for you. The smile you give him in return is enough for the both of you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please put smile on my face with comments and emotional outbursts, u know the drill
> 
> also my experienced readers know what it means when i end a chapter on a happy note so


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> touchy feely

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im really sorry for how long this took, im just still unemployed despite lots of supposedly stellar interviews and basically real life is taking a huge toll on me

You guess you’re dating Dave. It seems safe to assume so, anyway. After he confessed his feelings in the weirdest way possible, you didn’t stay much longer, but as you watched cartoon reruns, he sat pressed against your side, hand very casually laid against your knee. You didn’t dare make a move. 

The next day at school he acts no differently, really, or the next two days after that, and for that you’re thankful—you don’t want to even think about what Brandon would do with this new information. You don’t share any classes with him, so it’s not like there’s much interaction to be had anyway. 

But you get out of class, and Dave is waiting for you with Gamzee like always. The difference is that he steps forward this time, licks his lips and asks if you wanna come over. Just you. 

You look up at Gamzee immediately. You’d texted him the news last night once you were out of Dave’s apartment, but he’s always such a lonely dude. He snorts when you make eye contact, and waves you off. 

Movies taught you that before the relationship comes the romance, the rush of a first kiss, maybe stolen at a party, or in the rain, or both. You’re supposed to want to die over your true love before you ever even talk to him, and if you’re extra lucky, yours will be a romance that’s forbidden. And of course, movies taught you that you have to be attractive for anyone to like you. Instead your ugly self is standing over Dave Strider, someone you hated only a couple months ago, and he keeps curling his foot around your ankle where nobody can see it on this crowded 1 train. He tried to get you to take the seat when it opened up, but you knew from experience you could never wedge yourself into that space, and made him take it instead. 

He doesn’t actually look at you the whole ride, although you can feel his foot sliding between yours, the toe brushing against your ankle like a caress. His shoes are designer, slick red Adidas kicks with oversized tongues to better display the logo, and you feel ashamed of your ratty New Balances your father bought you last September during back-to-school sales. 

You’re starting to realize, as he leads you from the station to his building, that he’s taking the scenic route, some circuitous path that avoids an entire block that would have shaved a couple minutes off your walk. But it’s his neighborhood, not yours, and you keep your trap shut for now. For all you know there’s brigands or some other unbelievable shit all over that one particular block that Dave seems so allergic to. He walks ahead of you, bookbag hanging off one shoulder with his hands shoved into his pockets. 

His sister is gone again, leaving you alone with Dave for the second time. You don’t realize your heart is lodged up in your throat until Dave steps out of his shoes and turns to look back at you, _C’mon, are you coming or what?_ with his eyes. The quietness of the apartment fills your ears to bursting, and you’re so aware of Dave you feel dizzy. You swallow to try and put your heart back where it belongs. 

The TV helps to break the silence when he turns it on, helps your throat un-knot as you sit next to him. Everyone likes cartoons. His thigh next to yours feels like a furnace, tense at first and then pressing more insistently as he melts against your side a little more every five minutes. The episode ends just as his head comes to rest on your shoulder, and then the credits seem to startle him upright, tugging at his clothes distractedly like a cat caught being clumsy. 

In the middle of a commercial for Stompeez, Dave turns to you and clears his throat twice before saying, “You wanna make out or something? I mean, look, you can say no, we can keep watching these sweet toons and being real awkward about touching each other,” and when you glance down at the floor you can see his toes curling and digging into the rug, “but I mean, if you wanna put your lips on mine, then I’m down for that, is what I’m saying.” He’s not blushing, at least, but you get more or less the same message from the way he rolls his lips between his teeth. “No pressure.” 

“You’re not kidding?” you ask, casting a suspicious glance his way, and that seems to break his anxiety, because he throws up his hands with an exasperated groan. 

“No, dude, how many times are we gonna have to go over this? I’m not so fucked up I would ask to date you _and_ kiss you just for a fucking prank.” He’s scooting over with this determined look, and you feel a sharp chill shoot up your spine when he puts a hand on your knee. Even his hands are smaller than yours, like he’s the beauty to your beast. Maybe you’ll start growing gnarled horns soon. “So are we doing this or not?” 

“Yeah,” you say with the kind of strangled pitch you haven’t been afflicted with since you were 13. “Yeah.” 

Dave leans in, eyes open just enough so he can see where he’s going, lips parted, and you have this brief moment where you drop out of your body completely, because this can’t be your life, there’s no _way_ this is real. The sounds of another Lego cartoon are the undercurrent to Dave’s breathing and your own pounding heart as his lips meet yours, hot and soft except for a little ridge of split skin along the bottom lip. Shit. 

After a moment you both realize you’ve frozen up, and Dave sits back with a sigh. “Dude.” 

“What?” you snap, running a quick hand through suddenly sweat-soaked hair. 

“Do you not actually want to do this?” 

“Yes, _obviously_ I do!” Your hand is fucking damp from your hair now, way to go, Vantas. Nasty. “I just—I’ve never kissed anyone before, so excuse the flying fuck outta me if I’m not exactly practiced at this!” 

“Okay, well, if you actually want to do this, then how about I give you some pointers and we go from there?” He crosses his arms, raising his eyebrows. 

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.” You exhale short and heavy, lying back against the arm of the couch. “Hit me.” 

“For one thing,” Dave says as he crawls forward to kneel between your legs, bracing himself on your knees, and shit, shit, it’s already too much, “you gotta open your mouth, like that’s number one on the list of ways to make kissing actually fun. And number two, Hollywood kisses are fake as hell.” 

“They look like fun to me,” you grumble, immediately protective of your taste in movies that happens to involve a _lot_ of Hollywood kisses. “What makes you an expert, anyway?” 

“I didn’t say I was an expert, this is like, basic shit, Karkat. Come on, let me do this.” He squeezes your knees and you swallow. “I’m gonna kiss you again, and this time don’t fucking freeze up, okay?” 

“Just get on with it,” you say, trying to ignore your entire subconscious as Dave’s ribs brush your inner thighs when he leans forward again. Your imagination is on fire, constructing scenes that involve nudity and all sorts of shit you don’t think you’ll ever have the courage to try, much less ask for them. 

You do take his advice, though, and when he kisses you this time you open your mouth for him. His tongue darts inside and it’s such an alien feeling it’s a miracle you don’t bite down on it. It sends a surge down your body straight to your crotch, and with the way Dave is pressed against you there’s no possibility he didn’t feel the way your dick is twitching to life. But if he did, it’s not stopping him, and you very tentatively try to kiss back, poking your tongue out like dipping a dainty toe in unknown waters. 

It’s like throwing a switch. Dave puts his whole body into the kiss, one hand disappearing into the crevice between your body and the back of the couch, the other running along the rolls of your side. The anxiety of having your body touched is almost enough to pull you out of it, but he kisses you more aggressively, and there’s nothing you can do about it but melt back into the cushions. He’s not a perfect kisser by any means—there’s slobber, and teeth clicking every so often, and you have a theory that his mouth is open too wide, but it’s enough for you that someone like Dave wants to kiss someone like you. You’re rock hard. 

The problem is Dave. You can feel his hips rocking against yours, mimicking the motion of thrusting into you, and everything else about him says he wants you—but below the belt, there’s nothing. He’s completely soft, and as he kneads the fat on your hips you _do_ push him back. He doesn’t get it at first, and you push harder, throwing him halfway across the couch. He looks dazed, red-faced and slack-jawed, and you wonder bitterly why he’s trying so hard to pretend to be turned on. 

“What?” is all he can ask as he catches his breath. 

“What do you mean, _what?”_ you retort, pulling a pillow over your obvious boner. “Just fucking stop it, Dave.” 

“Stop what?” He looks at you in confusion. “What did I do?” 

“Stop making _fun_ of me!” you bellow. “I don’t even understand the point of pretending to get turned on by making out with me! I’ve never met anyone who could take a prank as far as you do, I mean Jesus Christ!” 

“Who the fuck is _pretending?”_ he wants to know with a helpless shrug. “Did you just not like it, and now you’re trying to make it my problem?” 

“Obviously I liked it!” You toss the pillow aside, and gesture at your fading erection that’s still pretty evident. “And by the same gauge, obviously you didn’t!” 

“Oh,” Dave says quietly. “Shit.” 

“Ah, aha, yeah, because I caught you. Fuck you, Dave.” You don’t want to get up until you’re good and flaccid and ready to get back on the train. 

“It’s not like that, I promise,” he says, reaching for the hand that you snatch away as soon as he tries for it. “Karkat, come on! I just—I have a condition, okay?” 

“A condition,” you sneer. “Really. And what’s this ‘condition’ called?” you ask with giant air quotes. 

“It’s a hormone deficiency, okay? I was... I was born with a lot of estrogen, so I can’t get hard, and I have to wear this undershirt so I don’t look like I have tits. See?” He pulls the collar of his T-shirt aside, and sure enough, there’s the collar of an undershirt that looks almost plastic for how much Spandex it must have in it. “And it’s why my voice is kind of high, and why I’m short, and...” 

“Yeah, alright, I get it,” you mutter, feeling thoroughly embarrassed. It’s like being a colossal jackass is your specialty, especially when it comes to being insensitive toward Dave. Fuck. You slide further down the couch, and Dave pulls your long legs over his lap. 

“Just don’t tell anybody,” he says, gathering and releasing the fabric of your jeans. “You’re sworn to secrecy starting 60 seconds ago.” 

“Why would I tell anybody?” you say with a snort, but you’re both smiling, even if they’re wry and small. 

“You wanna try again?” Dave asks, already moving toward you. And you’re already nodding. 

It’s still sloppy and uncoordinated, and at one point there’s actually saliva sliding down the side of your cheek, but it doesn’t matter. With your fears assuaged you’re free to actually enjoy being kissed so thoroughly, though you do grab at Dave’s wrists to keep him away from your fat rolls. It doesn’t take long to get you hard again. 

“Hey Karkat,” he whispers, lips still brushing yours as he speaks. 

“What, Dave?” you groan. You can’t fucking think right now, body shuddering against Dave’s. 

“Can I...” He licks his lips, and pulls his head back when you crane yours up to kiss him again. “Wait, Jesus. I’m asking if I can put my hand down your pants, man.” 

“What?” You can already feel him shifting his arm between you, and shit, those are his fingers grasping at your cock through the denim, pulling it taut around the shape of your erection. “Dave—wait, Dave—”

The front door slams shut, and Dave is off of you in an instant, sitting up red-faced and tight-lipped. “I’m sure I’m interrupting something,” comes the dry voice of Dave’s sister Rose, and that’s got you sitting up too, scrambling for the pillow to hide your boner. “Disclaimer, I don’t care if you were making out before I got here. Just wait until I get into the bedroom and close the door before you get back to it.” As she sweeps past Dave manages to somehow go even redder, up into the roots of his hair, and he’s staring very pointedly at the TV screen. 

That kills the last trace of your boner. You quietly watch the rest of whatever show this is—you can barely even focus on whatever plot there might be—and then excuse yourself. Rose comes out as you leave, arms crossed and smirking, and when the door shuts behind you you can hear Dave yelling at her. 

On the ride home you keep replaying that one moment back, the feeling of Dave’s fingers stroking you a stark memory. You slip your earbuds in as you bite your lip; all you’d been able to do was panic. So what if you’re so disgusted with your own body you don’t want anyone to see or touch it? So what if you’re just waiting for Dave to be disappointed with you? 

You’re such a coward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feelings, reactions, predictions, etc; you know what 2 do beloved reader
> 
> hopefully i can get over myself and actually put out the next chapter sooner esp since i know exactly what i want to do with it for a change


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> oh no bro

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys so check out the new tags before reading today please! first and foremost
> 
> second i actually have no computer right now because my laptop's screen gave up the ghost so i literally wrote roughly 6000 words on my phone for this, and i'm using my mother's computer surreptitiously to upload. the repairs are costing me $280 and i still haven't found a job despite some great interviews so writing this is one of the few things keeping my mood up. hilariously i seem to be at my most productive without a real computer, ha, ha,, 
> 
> anyway i hope this was worth the wait, here u go
> 
>  ~~oh also because i wrote this on my phone the formatting isnt going to be as nice in terms of the long dashes and fancy quotation marks but i don't think you'll notice except for the part where i'm pointing it out to you, right now, sorry about that~~ i got my laptop back and fixed the formatting so its cute now

TG: john  
TG: john john john  
TG: dont do me like this john  
TG: i got big problems bruh  
EB: okay, what?  
TG: youre leaving me hanging its not cool man  
EB: i said what!  
EB: i was doing homework, okay?  
TG: i fucked up  
TG: i fucked up dude  
TG: iiiii fuuuucked uuuup  
TG: i cant tell rose about this  
EB: well, you can continue talking about how bad you fucked up, and i can just sit here in the dark about it  
EB: or you can actually tell me what you did.  
TG: i  
TG: okay so first of all you need to know shits about to get real tmi ok  
EB: don’t worry, the internet gave me the sex talk. i know what happens when mommies and daddies love each other very much.  
TG: okay well this daddy brought your new uncle home for hot makeouts right  
TG: he just  
TG: look  
TG: when two daddies love each other very much but one daddy secretly has mommy parts  
TG: the other daddy gets real upset and wants a genital divorce because he thinks this dude cant get it up for him  
TG: the problem with a phantom boner is the phantom part you feel me  
TG: shits so intangible its basically a poltergeist trolling the shit out of these well meaning hot daddies trying to get their shared mack on  
EB: okay, so uh, assuming i follow here  
EB: what did you do?  
TG: i told him i have a condition  
EB: jesus. what did you even say?  
TG: that i have a condition that makes me have a bunch of girly physical attributes while still being a boy  
TG: which includes not being able to get it up  
TG: then he got all shades of embarrassed  
EB: well i mean, if you look at it a certain way, you’re not actually lying, so you can still eventually clear it up easy.  
EB: so he believed you?  
TG: i think so  
TG: he let me kiss him again but then miss thing came home with her unimpressed face and karkat couldnt run out quick enough  
EB: ah. yikes  
TG: im pretty sure hes still gonna take this as me lying to him though if i tell him the straight truth  
EB: what do you mean, if?  
TG: look i dont know ok  
TG: karkats a real sweet dude but hes got trust issues plus a short temper  
TG: i just dont want this to be some brandon teena shit ok  
EB: but then how’re you gonna, you know...?  
TG: i dont fucking know ok  
TG: look i gotta go  
TG: rose wants to have some kind of deep sibling conversation maybe  
TG: or she wants me to grill her a cheese  
TG: this could go either way soldier  
TG: ill report back  
TG: this is leftenant dave strider signing off  
TG: possibly for good  
TG: shed a tear for me if youre manly enough  
EB: i don’t know why i still talk to you.  
TG: love  
TG: adoration  
EB: go grill your sister a cheese. 

You close your laptop in an empty room. Rose is gone, having stalked out to go simmer in the park even though it’s after dark; you may have yelled a little louder than necessary about the smarmy way she interrupted you. Bro hates it when she does that, but even if Bro were home you know he has a harder time disciplining Rose than he does you. A few years ago, when he was drinking a lot still, he described her as “a lot more grown up than I’ll be even when I’m like, 85 years old” as he stared into the depths of a Budweiser Light. Then he started talking about how disgusting Budweiser Light is, and that was the end of the meaningful part of that conversation. 

Off come your clothes, your binder, the boxer briefs that wrinkle around nothing in the front. You stand naked in front of the fingerprinted, water-spattered mirror on the door of the closet you share with your sister, and stare balefully at your body. At your wide hips, made to seem wider by fleshy pale thighs. At your breasts, big and kind of pendulous and riddled with inexplicable blemishes and old stretch marks from how quickly they grew; your bra that still fits, which used to be the bra Bro bought too big by accident, labels these breasts as 36D. 

But most of all you stare at your crotch, a dark yellow bush that you trimmed the night before asking Karkat over with intent to kiss him before realizing how pointless an action that was. Maybe if the hair was darker—maybe if _you_ were darker, instead of being born with a deficiency, if you were the color of your two siblings—the two lips of your genitalia would be impossible to see. When you stand with your legs spread they’re still pressed together in a point that looks like it was formed in the pressure of your thunder thighs. 

A proper boy would hate this part of himself wholesale, more than the hips, the boobs. He would hate not having a big ol’ manly weapon of dickstruction to swing around—or to press inside a willing partner. And some days you do subscribe to that. But mostly you wish there was a way you could keep your masculinity _and_ want to take a pounding in the pussy. 

Just thinking the words makes the blood rush to your face. You’ve seen the documentaries, you’ve read the scandalous books, and _fuck_ if you haven’t rehashed this exact argument with yourself time and again. The dysphoria—because that’s the word you learned—that you feel when someone calls you by your birth name is your biggest affirmation that you are in fact a boy, that you didn’t make Bro pay court fees and other sums of money for nothing just because he, too, believed you are a boy. 

The feelings you have about sex are exacerbated by the sheer fact that you are a nasty, hormone-addled teenager that wants to touch himself so badly it physically hurts some nights. You know Rose does it when she thinks you’re asleep, with controlled breathing in utter silence that’s occasionally broken by a slick noise. Sometimes when you _know_ she’s asleep your hand wanders, rests over the heat of your cotton-covered vulva, but you can never bring yourself to just accept what you have and push a probing finger through your pubes. It’s like there’s this fucking audience in your head and you don’t know how they even got in there but they know all the words to all those documentaries, books, TV specials you’ve watched and they shout GIRL in a full choral roar whenever you accept your naked body too much. You’ve been able to placate them with the word _crossdresser_ when you dance in a bra and panties. 

Stupid. Fucking stupid, man. A real man doesn’t want to wear Victoria’s Secret, he wants to _know_ what that secret is. A real boy, anyway, since you know how much society values heterosexuality as part of the Real Man package, a real boy wants to thrust into his new boyfriend’s presumably virgin ass and make him scream; a real boy does not want that new boyfriend to push a throbbing cock into his wet cunt. 

You shiver; introspection in the nude is for Oscar bait and certain angsty teen flicks, not for gender-confused kids standing in their drafty bedroom in early spring. You’re thinking yourself in circles, anyway. You pull your underwear back on, pull out a big T-shirt for pajamas. You do want to fuck Karkat, though, even if it takes some Boys Don’t Cry ninja skills with a strap-on in case you turn out to be too much of a coward to ever tell him the truth about your body. You hang onto that thought as you reopen your laptop and set Pesterchum to invisible. 

Bro gets home before Rose returns. He works for the MTA as his primary, bacon-bringing job, and that’s all he’ll tell you about it. The only reason he’s home this early is because it’s Friday, though he won’t tell you anything deeper on that front, either. He used to have short locs he would sometimes half-sweep into a ponytail, but one day he came home with his head shaved, and would only say it was for work when you asked about it. Nothing makes you feel like a little kid quite like your brother’s predisposition to the enigmatic. 

“Where’s your sister?” he asks as he falls back onto the couch. As if he doesn’t know. 

“The park, probably reading in the dark.” You take a seat on the far end of the couch, hunching over and crossing your arms over your unrestrained boobs. While you definitely have nothing to prove to Rose, you feel like if you’re not serious enough about your gender identity in front of Bro, your legal guardian, he’ll take back everything he’s done for you about it. It doesn’t matter that he would never do that. 

Bro pinches the bridge of his nose as he takes off his weather beaten MTA cap. “You gotta—” But he doesn’t take it any further than that, because he knows there is no _gotta_ with Rose Lalonde. “You pissed her off again, didn’t you?” 

“Me? Hell no, she’s the one who had shit to say,” you snort. You grab the pick comb off the coffee table and groom yourself in short angry strokes, like a cat trying to distract from the way it just fell off the dresser. “She didn’t like the answers I gave her, so she sashayed her ass on out the door."

Rose chooses right then to sashay her ass right back in, though it’s less of a sashay and more of a defeated shuffle. 

“Hello, Dirk,” she says quietly. “Dave.” Her pronunciation of your name is cold by contrast. 

“Rose,” you return with a haughty sniff. 

“Dave and I were talking, and we thought we ought to go to the zoo tomorrow,” Bro says. “Little family outing. You in, Rose?"

She narrows her eyes very specifically at you before saying no, no she would not like to go to the zoo, family outing or otherwise. She’s not incapable of socializing with her peers, thank you very much. In fact, she has _plans_ , so again, no, and good _night_. And she does actually sashay to the bedroom. 

“So you wanna go to the aquarium with your wrinkly ol’ Bro?” he asks as he turns back to you. 

In the morning Rose very neatly avoids any kind of interaction with you at all. By the time you leave with Bro, she’s only just starting to get ready to go out. 

You ride the train in silence. It’s a very, very long trip out to Coney Island from Washington Heights, closing in on three hours shared between the 1 and the D trains. Bro only talks when absolutely necessary for the most part; you used to think that was part of his cool persona. Lately you theorize he’s just tired and doesn’t know what to say to teenagers. 

When you get to Coney Island, the aquarium is still closed in the wake of Hurricane Sandy, a fact you’d been very sure of until Bro had suggested the outing, because adults are always supposed to know better. “Oh,” he mutters, scratching at the stubble on his jaw. “I forgot.” Another ten cool points lost. 

In fact, Coney Island is still a mess, months after the fact. There is no side show, there is no aquarium, and the boardwalk is desolate and chilly. The wind makes it sound like the beach is keening. 

“C’mon, kiddo,” Bro says as he hops the rail that marks the border between the beach and the boardwalk. “I know you like the beach.” 

You hunch down into your hoodie with a shiver, keeping your feet on the wooden slats of the boardwalk. “Yeah, in summer, after the beach is actually declared open.” Another shiver. “It’s freezing.” 

“Builds character,” he says, folding his beefy arms over the top of the rail. “I already paid for two fares, so we’re gonna have a nice little family outing right here. Just us cool dudes."

“I’m pretty sure I got more character than most dudes can handle,” you say. “All Reggie Watts up in here, goddamn cartoon character and ain’t nobody ever gonna be like me.” But Bro just looks at you, thankfully today not wearing his dumbshit embarrassing anime shades that he might actually consider cool. The wayfarers make him look almost normal. You sigh and vault over the railing, sand making itself at home in your dunks instantly. 

You don’t think you’re allowed to be out here, but if you say anything Bro’s just going to run his smart mouth, and then it’ll be you getting cool points docked. He leads you down the beach back toward Stillwell, toward the buildings built so shortly before the storm that a more pretentious person would call corporate hubris. You just miss Shoot the Freak. Conceptually speaking, anyway, you yourself never gave it a whirl. Bro’s about as chatty as he was on the train. 

Until he stops, hands in his pockets as he looks out at the Cyclone. The sky is completely cloudless, the sun cold and bright. “Dave,” he says, so quiet you don’t catch it at first. 

“Yeah.” 

“I was thinking maybe of getting you to a therapist.” He still has his back to you, and you scuff your foot across the sand. 

“What the fuck do I need to see a shrink for?"

“Don’t talk to me like that. I’m your legal guardian.” When he says shit like that you can’t tell if he’s being serious. 

“You’re my brother.” You regret kicking the sand, because now one sneaker is heavier with sand than the other. “Why do you wanna send me to a therapist?” 

“To get you started on hormones.” Finally he glances at you over his shoulder. “If you want."

It’s more than a freight train hitting you, it’s ten trains all at once like you’re their junction, it’s a Boeing 747 crashing on top of the wreckage in case you hadn’t had enough. You’re not sure you remember how to breathe right now. 

“You can start next week, maybe Tuesday. I found someone who promises to use the right name for you and everything.” Bro’s words sound distant, and colors are suddenly both brighter and darker all around you. You swallow around a dry tongue. 

“Can I think about it?” You forget to speak from the chest, and the question comes out high and girly. 

“What’s to think about?” Bro asks with a short laugh. If it were anyone else, you’d say he sounded nervous. “This is what you want, right? This is the next step, isn’t it?” 

“I don’t know,” you say as you take a step back. “I can’t just say yes like that, you know? I mean,” and your laughter is definitely nervous, “none of my clothes are gonna fit anymore if I do it, right?” 

“Dave.” Bro pulls off his shades as he finally turns to face you. “You need to be serious about this."

“Who said I wasn’t serious?” You’d told yourself so many times Bro would never undermine you like this, that your fear he’d take back everything he’s done for you so far was a stupid one—and here it is, all coming true. You’re so aware of every part of your body designated as female, and you shrug your shoulders up higher around your ears. 

“Nobody has to say anything, little man. I thought you’d be happy.” He wipes his shades off on the front of his polo and slides them back on. “I put a lot of work into this.” 

“You didn’t _ask_.” You glare at the sand. 

“I didn’t think I had to."

“Fuck this,” you snap, and take off back down the beach. There are no echoing footsteps, and when you glance back you see Bro just standing there as if nothing’s fucking wrong. As if he expects you to come back. 

The beach feels even lonelier and colder back by the bridge to the aquarium. You plunk your ass a good ten feet from the edge of the wet sand, and pull off your kicks to empty them out. You don’t need Bro’s shit. You’re plenty fucking serious about the man you know you are. 

It’s not that you don’t want the T at all. It’s the permanency that makes your stomach clench. Your face, your voice, your bones—you like how you look _now_ , smooth-faced and fine-boned. You like how you look in a bra and panty set, although you convince yourself that’s just a footnote to why you don’t want hormone therapy. 

It’s that sometimes you can’t even fathom your future. 

Twenty minutes of staring at the water later, you realize all you’ve got is your student metrocard and no cash to get you home. 17 years old and you’re still throwing thoughtless tantrums like a little kid. You clean off your shades against your hoodie with a sigh, and tap out your sneakers one more time before pulling them back on. Time to kick rocks. 

“Like you aren’t the same little shit who used to run away to the bodega and get free candy for having such big eyes,” Bro snorts from behind you. 

“No, it was my natural powers of persuasion that did it.” You hook your thumbs in your pockets and curl your toes inside your shoes, feeling the sand you’ll have to vacuum out later. 

“You wanna get outta this zombie town?” He thumbs over his shoulder. 

“You gonna tell me more of what you think I oughta be doing?” 

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Bro slices a flat hand through the air. “Let’s get back to Manhattan.” 

Bro heads into his room for one of his undiscussed side jobs as soon as you get back. Rose still isn’t home, so you head into your own room and crack open your laptop. Karkat is online, and it’s a welcome distraction from the dust storm of bad thoughts Bro managed to stir up. Karkat is an even more verbose conversationalist online, and your chat logs stretch paragraphs long in mere minutes. It’s not that you’re mushy, anything but; but it’s so easy to talk to him about the stupidest shit, like the pros and cons of actually watching Dragon Ball Z in chronological order as if the plot really means anything. 

You don’t need T shots for Karkat to see you as a boy. As his boyfriend. And you can think of at least one boyfriendly thing you can do whether you’re boy, girl, or anything else. 

You ask him if he wants to come over again Monday after school. You promise that this time Rose won’t be a problem. 

And he says yes. 

Rose gets home around 8, looking much more chipper for it. “How was the zoo?” she asks, and you’re thinking maybe you won’t have to do all that conflict resolution shit. 

“Cold. Wet. Sandy.” You turn your head away when she starts to flash dance her bra off from under her top. 

“Sounds about right for an outing with Dirk.” Her bra goes flying into a dark and mysterious corner. “Did you raise your voice to him over literally nothing as well?” 

So much for things blowing over. “Come on, Rose. It wasn’t like that.” 

“Really? Then you _must_ illuminate for me. What _was_ it like?” She drops onto her bed to toe off her shoes, hard enough they hit the wall. 

“Really, Rose? I gotta explain why I don’t appreciate you running your mouth about how you walked in on me making out with my boyfriend?” 

“You’re calling each other that already?” 

“Rose!"

“Sorry.” Her smirk doesn’t quite convince you. 

You sigh. “Look. I’m sorry for yelling, alright? I was just being... Touchy.” 

“I could see that.” She stands up to begin shimmying off her tights. “Apology—” she grunts as she sits back down to pull them off her feet “—accepted.” 

It’s the best you’re going to get. “So what are the odds you’re hanging out with Jade Monday after school?” you ask, turning your gaze back to your screen for maximum smoothness. “You know, like, late?” 

She snorts. “Yes, Dave, I can give you and Karkat time to do... Whatever it is you’re going to do. I’ll text Jade.” And she reaches for her phone. 

“And how _is_ Jade?” You are so smooth. Look at you smoothing everything out. 

“None of your business.” The pillow that hits you tells you you’re actually forgiven. 

You’ve never been the most attentive student, but Monday drags on longer than it ever has. Your math teacher in particular keeps calling in you for answers you definitely don’t have. Worse, you forgot to charge your phone, so you can’t even text Karkat during any of these classes you don’t share with him. You watch the clock through every period, even knowing it’ll only make time feel slower, and sometimes you think about your after-school plans so vividly you cross your legs. There, at least, is one reason to be glad to not have a traditional dick. 

You sit your ass on a mailbox all through the last period, kicking your heels against its metal side, _bom bom bom_. Gamzee leans against it next to you, keeping a lookout for that one over zealous security guard. “Yo, you know, I’m startin’ to feel all kinds of left out,” Gamzee says as he drums on another face of the mailbox. It makes for a cacophonous tune with your kicking, and you stop. 

“Karkat can’t be your only friend,” you say. 

“Doesn’t mean I wanna stop seein’ my best friend in the flesh and blood now he’s gettin’ ass.” The drumming stops. “I ain’t disapprovin’ of that, on the record.” 

“Fine. I got plans for—I got plans with him today. Maybe tomorrow too, depending. But you can have Wednesday, how about?” You give the mailbox one more kick. 

“I’m gonna have to get my ass used to scheduling for his time, huh?” The bell rings inside the school building, and you slide down to the sidewalk. The security guards will be out in force in a hot second, and you’re not about to get herded away like a coyote hanging around a pasture. 

“What, you don’t like hanging out with me?” Karkat is always one of the first students out, the better to get out of the neighborhood before Brandon swings by again, and you can see him head and shoulders over most students now as he emerges. 

“You alright, Dave,” Gamzee laughs. “You do you today. Or him, or whatever else you got planned.” He claps you on the back as Karkat approaches. Karkat gets greeted with a half hug, and then Gamzee jogs away backwards with a little salute your way. “Wednesday,” he calls out. 

“What was that about?” Karkat wants to know as the two of you head toward the train. You wish you could hold his hand; maybe if you stopped being such a coward sometime soon, you could crossdress in public and hold his hand then without a problem. 

“Nothing, just Gamzee being Gamzee. You know.” You brush the back of your hand against his. “Rose isn’t gonna be back until late tonight, you know.” 

“Oh.” You can see him turning pink all the way to his hairline. “That’s good.” And you can feel his hand brush back against yours. 

Unlike Bro, with a willing conversational partner you can’t keep your mouth shut, so at least the train ride isn’t silent this time. In fact, you’ve got Karkat laughing and relaxed by the time you get up to Washington Heights, so much so that it’s not until you’ve got him on the couch upstairs that he remembers what you like to do with him on this couch. And he starts to blush again. 

“We’re not doing anything you don’t wanna do,” you say, even as you turn toward him, one hand hovering over his knee. 

He licks his lips. “Yeah,” he says with a nod, “yeah. Okay.” And he lets you kiss him. He lets you kiss him and he kisses you back, a little more confident than last time. His hand finds its way to the small of your back, and only a minute later you’re laying him down on the couch again, your hips between his open thighs. You run your hand up his side, over his shoulder, along his neck to cup the side of his face. Everything about him is soft and warm, but the warmest by far presses against the bottom of your stomach. 

Karkat’s hips undulate as you kiss him, his cock hard within his jeans and grinding against you. You grind back in return, desperate thrusts that make you wish more than ever you had a proper dick of your own. You can feel how much he wants it in the way his legs part even further at your touch, the one that isn’t pinned between you and the couch almost parallel to the floor with your hand massaging it. The fingers travel, sliding up along the inseam to find the damp place where all four seams meet. When those fingers rub against where you’re sure Karkat’s asshole is, he whines into your mouth, and breaks the kiss at last. 

“Wait,” he says breathlessly. “Wait, wait wait wait.” You sit up, holding up your hands. He sits up in turn, scooting back on the couch, and he still struggles to catch his breath. “This is just going way faster than I ever expected,” he says, putting a hand to his forehead. 

“Do you wanna stop?” You really, really don’t want to stop. “Because we can throw the brakes on the Strider train if absolutely necessary.” 

“No, I don’t want to—shut up, Dave,” Karkat groans. “I don’t want to stop, just slow it the fuck down."

“I guess that was a little beyond 101,” you admit, wiggling the guilty fingers. Karkat rolls his eyes. “But alright, let’s lay it out now that we’re not blinded by lust, here.” 

“Lust,” he snorts. “Whatever you say.” 

“Yeah, lust,” you say. “Or I wouldn’t be asking if I could open your jeans, this time without the panicking or interruption.” You lean forward, your fingertips just barely gliding along his thigh again. Karkat shudders, and you pull away. 

“Yeah, I guess we could give that a try.” He fumbles his button open, and you pull the zipper down. Karkat yanks the hem of his shirt down over the bottom of his belly immediately, leaving it up to you to actually pull his cock out. Your heart races as you stroke it through the ribbed grey cotton of his underwear; you can feel it twitch, you can _see_ it twitch, and it radiates heat like a small sun. 

“Karkat,” you say, trying to not let your voice shake, or get too high. 

“Just touch it,” he says from above. He sounds muffled, and when you look up he’s got both hands over his face. 

So you do. You pull the elastic away from his skin, climb up to straddle his thigh, and slide your hand in to wrap around his cock. Karkat groans again. It’s hot and almost velvet-soft to the touch, and the very tip is wet and slick. You rub your thumb there in circles, Karkat holding his breath as you do. His pulse beats strong and fast against your palm. Your groin literally aches, though you’d rather not classify what exactly you ache for. The smooth veiny skin drags when you try to pump him, though, and for a moment the both of you just hold still with his dick in your hand. 

“Karkat,” you try again, mouth drier this time. “I wanna suck your dick.” You can feel him trembling beneath you. Another minute of silence goes by, punctuated by Karkat swallowing. You say his name again. 

“In your room,” he finally replies in a shaky whisper. 

Your bed feels foreign as you sit down on it. You don’t know what the best position is, or even really what you’re doing; all you really know about blowjobs is “watch the teeth” and a few no-nos you learned yesterday on the internet. Karkat tucked himself back in just for the trip from the couch to your room, and now he stands awkwardly a few feet away from you, his erection still pretty evident. You reach out and pull him closer by the belt loops, which is a lot smoother of a move than you feel right now. When you swallow you can feel your heart in your throat, disguised as a knot. 

You’re so glad Karkat’s jean have clearly been worn hard, which makes the buttonhole just as worn, or you don’t think you’d ever get his pants open again. When he’s standing up like this his dick strains harder against against his underwear, and when you pull that down, his dick drops down like a drawbridge. It’s a dark pink when it's all filled with blood like this, surrounded by straight white-blond hair. He’s so tall that with you sitting in front of him, his crotch is level with your mouth. He keeps pulling at the bottom of his shirt until you put your hands over his. 

“You’re gonna get suffocated by my stomach,” he mumbles, refusing to let go of the shirt. 

“I’m pretty sure I survived enough evolution to not die giving a blowjob,” you say to his dick. “I need the room your knuckles are taking up if I’m gonna suck your dick.” You can see his cock twitch at being mentioned. 

“Alright,” he murmurs, releasing the fabric. “Okay."

You kiss the tip like you know what you’re doing. Karkat moans up above and you can feel it reverberate in your lips as you slide more of his cock past them. His smell hits you halfway down the shaft, strong and musky and all sorts of words you know would mortify him. You barely mind it. 

You reach around as you slide your tongue along the underside, tugging at the sides of both Karkat’s waistbands, and two hands stop you. “No,” he says, shaking his head. “Don’t pull down my pants."

You pull your mouth off his dick with a pop. “I just wanna get better access,” you say, not moving your hands. “I’m trying to make you feel good, Karkat.” You pause. “You want me to stop?"

“Wh—no! Stop asking me that!” he snaps, gnashing his teeth. “I just want to keep my clothes on, alright?” 

“Alright, alright. Chill.” You let go of his pants, and spit on your hand as delicately as you can manage. You wrap that hand around the base of his dick, and as you slide your lips flush to your fingers, your other hand grabs a handful of Karkat’s ass, and that much he doesn’t protest. 

It takes you a good few exploratory minutes to get a rhythm going, and you’re not sure what you’re doing with your tongue between pointing it and flattening it out, but Karkat seems to like it. His knees shake, his fingers grasp at your shoulders, and it doesn’t take him very long to come on your tongue, the bottom of his cock pulsing with it. You anticipate it, though, in the way he tenses, and you surprise yourself when you swallow the salty load down. 

“Shit,” Karkat wheezes. “Shit, I’m sorry, Dave, shit—”

“Nothing to apologize for, I got beginner’s luck,” you say with a little cough. “That was kind of a little river you saved up for me, huh?” 

Karkat is tucking his softening cock back into his underwear and zipping up already. “Sorry.” He sits down next to you—or tries to, anyway, but his knees fail him and he falls back on the bed instead. He winces as he lands, and looks around like he’s checking for structural damage. 

“I guess you liked my work, then,” you say with a pat to his knee. Totally not an awkward thing to say. 

“That _is_ the hardest I’ve ever come,” Karkat admits, resting his chin on his hand, his elbow digging into his other knee. “And that’s the first time I’ve ever talked to anyone about, uh, how hard I do or don’t come. Wow.” 

“Get used to it,” you say with a squeeze of his knee. Karkat’s aftertaste is souring in the back of your throat; you wonder if there’s any decent juice in the fridge. 

“I used to fantasize, actually, about you doing, you know, what you just did. Back when you were—back when I thought you were a bully.” He snorts, mostly to himself. “Kinda fucked up."

“Yeah,” you agree, “that is kinda fucked up.” When he glares at you, you flash him a grin and add, “Didn’t say I didn’t like it, though."

You sit quietly for a while, before Karkat clears his throat. “Dave, can I ask you something? About your condition.” 

Shit. “Sure, why not?” You try and fail to not bite your lip. 

“Okay, so I know you can’t get hard, I’ve already got that one down, but does it still feel good to get touched?” One blowjob and all this dude’s shyness about talking sex vanishes. Great. 

“Well shit, I dunno. I never tried, never saw the point.” You shrug, but you console yourself with the fact that at least this much is true. 

“You,” and you don’t think you’ve ever seen Karkat so pink, “you wanna try now? With me?” That’s not even pink anymore, he’s just flat out red. 

Fuck. “I don’t really wanna put you through that, Karkat. You shouldn’t worry about it.” You let go of his knee to pile your fingers together with anxiety in your lap. 

“Aren’t you the one that was just saying you ‘just wanna make me feel good’?” Karkat says with big air quotes. “I just wanna give you as much as you gave me."

“I’m just not comfortable with it yet, Karkat! Jesus, drop it! I got a fucked up body that I’m not ready to show even you!” You cross your arms with a huff, only to find yourself flailing for balance when Karkat stands abruptly. 

“ _You’ve_ got a fucked up body?” he hisses. “You? Look at me!” And he gestures to his whole self. “It’s amazing that I let you see any part of me not covered by clothes, especially my junk! I’m so fat I could have easily been in some traveling sideshow in the 30s! Hell, maybe even today!” 

“Karkat—”

“No! You know what people call me? Hambeast! Land whale! I’ve been asked if I sweat grease and cry lard!” He scratches at his scalp manically, eyes wide and wild. “I don’t want to hear about you being scared to show me your so-called fucked up body when I look like this and I still _allowed_ myself to enjoy it when you touched me!” He’s breathing heavy now, the wood floor creaking as he sways in place. 

But you have nothing to say, too much of a coward to reveal the truth—especially when Karkat is looking at you that way. 

“Fine. You know what? If you don’t even want to talk to me about it, I’m leaving.” He storms out to the living room, from where you hear him add, “Text me when you feel like not being so self-involved anymore.” He knows how the locks on the door work by now, and when it slams behind him, you’re still a useless lump on your bed, only now with a wet face. That’s how Rose finds you when she walks into the bedroom complaining that you left the door unlocked an hour later, and you barely hear her when she asks you what’s wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> zip zop you know what to do and that's talk to me about your feelings a lot. also to the commenter i snapped at last time im really sorry about telling you off for wanting more of this fic asap, i understand you were just excited. i stand by my request to please not refer to dave as a girl though even by way of implication, thank you


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> advice from friends feat. sollux

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys have you missed me i bet you have
> 
> i have a job now but im still looking for an apartment and my morning commute to elmhurst is like an hour and fifteen minutes so thats when ive been doing all my writing (and on my ride home) but, yeah, 
> 
> anyway look theres been a lot of comments containing variations of the question "is this still updating" and the answer is yes, definitely yes, this is a project i am going to finish no matter what. at the moment i'm not sure the same thing can be said for nukestuck because i feel like the plot got away from me when my comfort zone is interpersonal bullshit, but this fic is definitely getting finished, even if the updates may be spaced kind of far apart in comparison to when it first started. you may notice the overall writing is (mostly) tighter and the chapters are longer, so there's that, too
> 
> anyway i hope you enjoy

Sollux is a rare sight these days, even online. Once upon a time you two were basically joined at the hip, even with his lifelong bouts of depression. Getting into Stuyvesant has robbed him completely of a social life existing outside of his school, and from what you can tell he has no social life there, either, aside from this one perky goth-ish girl whose bad fashion sense has started to rub off on him. 

In elementary school you, Sollux, and Eridan were an inseparable trio, and even as Eridan began to distance himself from the fatso and the lisping nerd in middle school, Sollux stayed by your side, as much a freak in his way as you always have been. He took Eridan’s betrayal almost as personally as you did. 

He stands at the top of the spiraling white stairs when you arrive to meet him, off to one side to let the other occasional student by, though for now there’s just a couple of Korean—you think—kids dotting the steps, some huddled together and pointing to stuff on one girl’s tablet. Maybe they’re just dicking around, but Stuy kids aren’t known to devote time to much else besides work and sleep. Whatever it is they might be working on, you’re sure it’s far beyond your dumb ass. 

Once he spots you Sollux gallops down the steps past them, his long legs skipping every other step with ease. Not that it looks like he’s got it under control. To call him graceful would be like calling him lazy for working until he’s forgotten your birthday, or calling him short when he stands four inches closer to the sky than your six foot flat. Well, when he stands up straight, which only happens when something hits him in the ass. A low-flying pigeon hit him in the ass, once, and he’s been doubly hunched ever since. He stumbles at the bottom of the stairs; when you snicker, he sneers and calls you a jackass, his lisp front and center. 

“I’ll gladly be a jackass if it means I can get down the stairs without looking like a giraffe escaped from the zoo,” you retort. “And before you start, I’m the escaped elephant, but everyone knows elephants are more beloved than giraffes.” 

“Giraffes are pure elegance.” Sollux shoulders his bookbag higher on his back with a sniff. 

“Giraffes drink piss when they’re horny,” you say. Sollux looks down almost instantly, his gait missing a beat. On the one hand, you’ve shut him up—on the other, you remember as a big obvious blush spreads across your face, things get weird with Sollux whenever you, personally, mention anything to do with sex. “Shit, uh—"

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, gruff as he kicks an empty soda can a good twenty feet away. “You wanna walk up or downtown?” 

“Uptown,” you say immediately. All the better to avoid the throngs of tourists at Ground Zero. “I didn’t mean it like that.” 

“Wouldn’t matter if you did anyway, what with you being hitched and all,” he says with another shrug as you walk along. 

“If I still am,” you mutter. You’re nearing the can again and you have every intention to kick it twice as far as Sollux did. 

“Okay, you have to actually tell me what happened,” Sollux says as your foot connects with the can and sends it spinning barely a yard. “I was online and actually free to talk for like an hour. Why couldn’t you tell me then?” 

“I don’t know, there are just some things that are better to say in person than online, you know?” Your next kick lands the can in the gutter. 

“Not really.”

“Goddammit, Sollux. Would you fucking act like a human being for at least two seconds?” That poor can. It didn’t deserve to get kicked in the gutter like the piece of trash it is. It at least deserved to get picked up and put in a trash can. “I’m trying to spill my guts to my childhood friend, here, and you keep interrupting with your social ignorance. Do you fucking mind?”

He just chuckles at you as you reach the crosswalk. “Alright, fine. What did you do?” 

“You know, a real friend would just say ‘what happened’ instead of immediately pinning the blame on me,” you say as a swarm of small children rush by your legs. Probably from after-school activities at the elementary school across the street, and also the last audience you want for discussion of your failed sexploits. 

“Fine, then what happened?” He’s always so quick to appease whenever you even jokingly nitpick at wording. “Before I get old, Vantas.” 

The children thunder past the McDonald’s up ahead, followed by harried-looking adults. “I think I fucked up, Sol. Dave didn’t message me all weekend, and he wasn’t outside when I got out today.” One child dodges into the red building and an adult races to pull them out. “I’m pretty sure he hates me.” 

“Okay, but,” Sollux says as you watch the child lean toward the door of the McDonald’s, supported only by the adult holding them by the wrist. None of the other children seem to care about flat burgers and soggy fries the way this one does. “You still haven’t told me what you _did_. You obviously did something.” 

“And see, you’re accusing me again, when for all you know Dave did something terrible and now he feels so guilty he can’t talk to me anymore.” The kid ends up laying down on the sidewalk to have a tantrum as you pass by the children and head toward West Broadway. Sollux doesn’t say anything though, just eyes you judgmentally as you squeeze the straps of your bookbag. “But yeah, okay, this time you’re right, Jesus. Don’t look at me like that.” 

He does keep looking at you like that, though. You sigh as you turn the corner uptown, and wish for another can to kick. “I yelled at him like the huge, gaping, drooling asshole I am. I—”

“Thanks for the visual,” Sollux snorts. 

“—I yelled at him because,” you say through gritted teeth, “I was being stupid and insecure about him not letting me, you know—”

“I would know if you told me.” 

“Would you stop fucking interrupting me! Would you fucking _let me say this fucking essay’s worth of embarrassing shit i have to say_ so I never have to say it again? Would you be so kind, Sollux fucking Captor, would you let me goddamn do that?” You shove him hard enough that he stumbles sideways and whacks his leg against a siamese pipe, and he hisses in pain. “Shit, Sollux—”

“You are such a little fuck, Karkat, you know that?” he says as he hops in place until he can maneuver himself down the wall to sit his bony ass on the pipe. 

“I’m sorry! You pissed me off, okay?” you huff as he starts to roll up his pant leg. “Oh, please, don’t be such a fucking baby. You barely bumped it.” 

“Look, I’m just a really long bag of bones with like, no protection from the earth we live on. You’ve got plenty of padding to help you out, what do you know about pain?” Sollux says as he inspects his completely unmarked hairy knee. 

For a moment you’re just paralyzed by his words, watching him push the denim back down his leg like he didn’t just spit poison at you. As he gets up you give him another shove, and sneer, “You know what, I don’t even know why I thought I could talk to you about anything. I forgot what an asshole you are.” You turn back and stride toward the Chambers Street station entrance. 

“Karkat!” you hear behind you, but you keep going in your smooth practiced powerwalk that lets you go pretty fast with minimal jiggle. “Karkat, Jesus, wait!” He doesn’t have to abstain from running in public to keep his dignity, though, so two seconds later a hard knobby hand slaps onto your shoulder to pull you short. “Whatever it is I said, I’m sorry!” 

“What _ever_ it is you said?” you ask, incredulity threading your every word as you both pull over curbside to not block the subway entrance. “Asshole! Asshole, asshole, _ass_ hole!” 

“I’m not a mind-reader and you _know_ I—look, I’m trying to apologize, alright? Can you just tell me what I said?” He sighs hard. “I know I’m an asshole. I just try to be less of one to you.” His hand slides from your shoulder as he adds, “You’re still the best friend I’ve ever had.” 

“Do you seriously think I have no goddamn nerve endings because I’m such a huge fatass?” you growl as you brush your shoulder off. “Padding, seriously?"

“More cushion for the—"

“Stop!” You don’t push him this time, instead just taking a step back toward the train station. “Are you for real right now? Like I would say something like that to you!"

“You’re right, you’re right, I’m sorry. That was shitty of me. Inappropriate, even.” He sounds contrite, at least. “Shit, I don’t know how you even stay friends with me.” He grabs his elbows as he hunches down even further than usual, the second sign of a major self-loathing spiral. “I’m the worst—"

“Alright, that’s enough.” You peel one hand away from one elbow, and start tugging him back uptown. “You’re not the worst by any stretch of even the wildest imagination, and you know it. In fact you know _exactly_ who deserves that prestigious award, and he still dyes that one streak of purple into the front of his hair like he’s so fucking punk rock.” 

“Heh.” The hate spiral pose drops, and he walks alongside you like everything is okay. “Yeah, Eridan’s a real prick. Fuck that guy.” 

“Not that you would,” you add, which draws another laugh out of Sollux. 

“I might have,” Sollux admits, and to your horror-stricken face he just shrugs. “Like, if he hadn’t been both mega jealous _and_ closeted as hell. Also, you know, not actually because we were what, in fifth grade? He took it _way_ too seriously.” 

“Yeah,” you agree quietly. You remember taking your crush on Sollux pretty seriously, but between his words and how long ago it all was, you’re not about to open it back up. Gamzee may be the only male friend you’ve ever had you’ve never crushed on, which you think might have something to do with his aversion to washing his hair. “I don’t know that he ever got over that whole thing.” 

“Sounds like him.” Eridan, of course, had been your confidant at eleven when you needed to tell someone you thought you might be gay, with a special focus on the third member of your limited social circle. Even now your stomach clenches at how good he was at pretending to care, how easily he manipulated you into keeping your mouth shut. Not that that particular aspect mattered in the end, considering no earthly force can ever keep you from spilling your guts in every possible direction. “You know, he was here a little while ago. Like, during lunch period. I went outside and he was just waiting at the bottom of the stairs. He didn’t even have a backpack."

“When was this?” you ask, eyeing the Jamba Juice as you pass it. When you’re an adult with a job and an apartment of your own to ban your brother from, you’re going to buy so many smoothies you might die of brain freeze. 

“I don’t know, a couple Fridays ago? He had a cut on his cheek but he looked like he just fell down or something.” Goodbye, Jamba Juice. 

“So what did you do about it?” It explains, at least, why Brandon’s goons were complaining about their gofer’s absence. What Eridan expected to happen is still a mystery. 

“Do? I went back inside and went out another door, across the street. What, like I was gonna just stroll on down and be like, hey Eridan, long time no see since you decided to fuck over all your real friends, how’s it going looking like a weasel to match how you act?” Sollux snorts at the thought. “I never wanna deal with him ever again. Thank god I got into Stuy.” 

“Well that worked out really well for you, huh?” you retort. “Meanwhile I’m stuck with him.” 

“You could’ve gotten in too,” he says as you wait for the light at a crosswalk. Going uptown through TriBeCa usually means you can breeze on through no matter the signal, but you’re not as good as some others at jaywalking and talking at the same time. 

“No, I definitely couldn’t have.” He doesn’t notice you glaring at him as he glances down the empty street and starts off walking to the other corner anyway. You hurry after him, grumbling wordlessly as you catch up. “Just because _you_ thought the test was easy doesn’t mean the rest of us did."

“I guess.” 

After that you walk a solid two blocks in awkward silence before either of you speak up. Sollux is the one to break that silence. 

“Wasn’t I supposed to give you, like, advice or something?” he asks with a steady stare. “What _exactly_ happened with Dave?” 

“What happened?” you repeat, throat suddenly feeling tight and dry. 

“If you don’t tell me, how can I help?” Sollux says with a shrug, and god but you hate how right he is. Like just about all of the fucking time. “Let’s take an avenue block."

As you turn away from West Broadway, so too do you turn away from its heavy traffic, the hundreds of listening ears, and you swallow around a thick tongue. Sollux is a good and smart friend when he wants to be. 

“He gave me a blowjob,” you finally say, in a voice about the size of your current self-esteem. “And I mean, there was nothing wrong with it. As per fucking usual,” you add with a tired bitterness, “the problem was me.” 

Sollux waits for you to continue, and you swallow again. You would die for a sip of water right now. 

“See,” you say, even quieter now, “Dave has a condition, or at least that’s what he told me. That he can’t get hard no matter how excited he is. But I asked, after he finished, you know—I asked if it still felt good to touch it.” You can feel beads of sweat welling on your forehead despite the spring chill. 

“Is that where things went wrong?” The way Sol asks is a little robotic, but it’s still absolutely the prompt you need. 

“He didn’t want me to even try. In fact,” and your voice rises with your angry, just thinking about it, “he said he had a—a fucked-up body! That he wasn’t ready to show it to _me!_ You know, as in probably the most desperately unattractive person he’s ever met?” You’re such a resentful piece of shit. 

“He wouldn’t have asked you out if he thought—"

“No! I know! I know!” you snap, one hand flying up to entangle itself in your hairline. Sollux as the voice of reason is maddening, even if that’s exactly why you wanted to talk to _him_ about this. “I mean, yeah, you’re right—but that doesn’t make me less right about how everyone but Dave, and blind people with all their nerve ends burned away, sees me.” Some jackass old man in a suit and a cowboy hat is being obvious about his eavesdropping as he approaches to pass you, but you find yourself at a sudden zero in your reserve of fucks to give. “I mean, it’s just—even for being shorter than Eridan, Dave is one of the—” you lick your lips in preparation for the alien words about to pass between them, “—one of the hottest dudes I have ever met. Have I shown you photos?” 

“Like, once when I was AFK, but I got them later because you never canceled the upload, so yeah, you have.” Something odd flickers across Sol’s features, but it’s too fast for you to make anything of it. 

“Ey-eff-kay?” you parrot back, arching your brows. Sollux looks at least a little mortified, scratching the back of his head like an anime character. 

“Why don’t you finish what you were saying?” he says as he shoves his hands into his jacket pockets, shoulders stiff. 

“What, explaining at length how gross everybody but Dave finds me?” you snort. “No, this is the part where you give me your opinion dressed as advice. Come on, Captor.” 

“My _opinvice_ , then,” Sollux says with a snort of his own, “is you should talk to him."

“Wow! Talk to my boyfriend who’s been avoiding me! Holy shit, how didn’t I think of that one?” you bellow as Sollux looks at you with distinct annoyance. 

“Online, you fucking nerd!” he snaps. “Don’t you have his Skype?” 

“I—yeah, but I never see him online,” you reply with a small grimace. “And it feels, uh, awkward to text him considering my parting line. You know, ‘text me when you feel like being less self-involved!’ Yeah, definitely not.” 

“Yeah, probably don’t text him, then,” he agrees, which is not exactly what you want to hear, even if you just said it yourself. “But he’s probably just invisible on Skype. Dude like that? He’s not gonna give up socializing online just to avoid one awkward conversation.” 

“I guess I didn’t think of that.” You wonder if there’s a point in bringing up that Dave might be using AIM instead, as if it’s 2004. 

“Yeah, I know you didn’t,” he says with a little laugh that makes you want to flick him in the ear. “And the other thing you should try is—and look, don’t get offended, this is literally my opinion-advice for your own good—"

“Just say it,” you groan. 

“What I’m saying is, you need to get over yourself a little bit. Like, just that little bit, enough to see, you know, his side of this.” Sollux immediately holds his hands up defensively, partially to shield himself from your spluttering he knows is coming. He knows you, after all. 

“Get _over_ myself?” you repeat carefully. You’re trying not to live up to his expectations, but god it’s hard—who the fuck is he to tell you to get over yourself with all those self-indulgent mood swings, all his moaning about never knowing what he wants? He wouldn’t know how to get over himself if his life was on the goddamn line. 

“I said don’t get offended!” he says, giving his hands an extra shake to remind you, hey, they’re up. Defense mode. 

“Okay, wow, I’ll try to remember that the next time a childhood friend fucking insults me to my face!” you exclaim, and your hands go up too, fingers splayed. 

“Look,” he says, pinching the bridge of his nose with a groan. “What I’m trying to say is he’s probably as stuck inside his own head as you are. He’s so caught up in thinking his condition makes him, I don’t know, an unlovable freak,” and here he gives you a meaningful look, “that he doesn’t see you that way at all."

“See me what way?” Your tone is as sharp as it is curious. 

“Like, he probably just sees the way you look as...” Sollux shrugs. “As just the way you happen to be shaped. As just another human shape."

“Bullshit.” Instant reflection, though, tells you Sollux is right. Unless you go with your gut instinct—that his every action is still somehow meant as a cruel dig toward you—Dave is so sincere in the way he feels about you that it’s probably what made you suspicious in the first place. God, he even seems to _enjoy_ grabbing at your rolls when you make out. “Bullshit,” you say again, this time more to yourself than to Sollux. 

“So talk to him, but also _listen_ to him. That's my final opinion that you can also take as some seriously good advice,” Sollux says with a jab of his finger into your shoulder. 

“That is pretty sound,” you admit. “When did you get so good at that? When we were in 8th grade and I told you about Tavros, all you could say was 'I don't know' about a million times.” 

“Growing up,” he replied with a smug face, as if he's not 17 himself. 

“Yeah, okay,” you snort. “You're so grown up, hanging around asocial nerds like yourself all day."

“Stuy kids tend to actually be really well adjusted,” he says, and you push him for what you think is the third time today. It might be the fourth. 

You want to ask to hang out at Sollux's place in midtown for a while, partially to spend more time with him and partially because Sollux's parents are fabulously upper class, which shows in their cushy furniture and the contents of their fridge. Hell, it's been so long since you've been over, they've probably gotten new furniture since then. Maybe even a new fridge. But as expected, Sollux was barely able to carve out this half hour walking around with you; he's way too bogged down with homework and projects to have someone over, even someone as easy to entertain as you (in your own opinion, at least). He goes as far as Times Square with you, and then you've got to transfer to the 7 into Queens. You spend your ride home silently judging everybody else staring soulfully at their reflections in the dark door windows while denying to yourself that you do it, too. 

The easy part is over. You get home and your dad is off work early, stuck to the couch and holding a plate of what looks like chicken curry as he watches the History Channel. “ _Hay comida en la cocina, hijo,_ ” as if you're not already on your way. You like Mexican food just fine, but when your dad makes the effort to bust out the Bengali chops, it never disappoints. Or well, no, because his usual cooking isn't disappointing either. You just like a little culinary diversity, okay? 

He's finished eating by the time your plate is made, gently maneuvering his aging body to stretch across the couch, so you take your dinner to your room. Skype is always open, and it automatically switches back from idle as you wake your desktop up. There's like ten messages from Gamzee about the most inane shit, mostly about some fucked up pigeon he saw that really made him think; he never pays attention to your status icon, although at least he doesn't seem to care whether you get back to him right away. Sollux is always technically online because his devices are ever off, ever, but always set to Do Not Disturb and a reply from him is about as common as finding a dollar in the gutter. Tavros is usually online in the evening, and yeah, there he is now, probably finished with his homework and killing time until bed by being appropriately social like the good egg he is. He waits a cordial sixty seconds before linking you to what you know has to be a funny animal video. 

But Dave's status icon remains an empty green outline. When he gave you his username he assured you he totally preferred Skype to, say, Pesterchum, a strange and tiny application that hasn't been updated since maybe 2008, which he claims to use only to stay in contact with a single childhood friend. But he's always listed as offline; you guess it had never occurred to you that he'd be the type to stay invisible. It seems like such an asocial thing to do, and Dave is nothing if not outgoing. 

You double-click his display name, but you immediately tab away to Tavros's messages, where you dutifully open the link he's sent you. It's an animal video as expected--in fact, it's the exact one you expected, because you've seen it on your dash on Tumblr at least five times this week, and Tavros wants to make sure you didn't miss his reblog of it. 

**adios, toreador!**  
dID YOU WATCH?  
Wait, I forgot caps was on,  
But yeah,, did you watch?  
 **carcinogeneticist**  
jesus, yes. it's only the hundredth time this exact same video has been presented to me, so why wouldn't i be excited to see it again, this time not even on my dash?  
it's refreshing to have the internet's best content carefully selected by a friend and then have them personally link you to it.   
**adios, toreador!**  
Did you see Sollux today?   
**carcinogeneticist**  
yeah, but not for long. surprising absolutely fucking no one, he had tons of homework and i couldn't even hang out at his place.   
we had a good talk, though. i'm gonna try messaging dave on skype because sollux thinks he might just be invisible.   
**adios, toreador!**  
That seems kind of, I don't know, weird? And also like you're hoping Dave won't be online after all? I mean,,  
You could just text him?   
Since that's, you know, an avenue of communication you know definitely works,,,  
I'm not trying to tell you what to do, or anything, just, I think it's worth it, to try and communicate, as directly as possible?  
 **carcinogeneticist**  
text him? yeah, no, fuck that. i told you what i said to him right before i left his place. way too awkward.   
**adios, toreador!**  
Uh, isn't it more awkward to yell at your significant other, and then not talk to him for days, because you feel like it would be weird to text him, based on your reference to texting in the last words you said to him?  
 **carcinogeneticist**  
he could text me first! he's the one who's been maintaining radio silence. he doesn't even wait for me after school anymore.   
**adios, toreador!**  
Maybe he's as freaked out as you are, though, I mean, aren't you like almost a foot taller than him? You can be pretty intimidating when you're yelling.   
**carcinogeneticist**  
six inches taller.   
are you saying you think he's   
scared  
of me?  
 **adios, toreador!**  
I didn't say scared, just, freaked out?  
 **carcinogeneticist**  
what the hell's the difference?   
**adios, toreador!**  
I think maybe, instead of this conversation, you should try messaging Dave, and then I can tell you about this weird guy I met today.   
**carcinogeneticist**  
what weird guy?  
 **adios, toreador!**  
Go message Dave!  
 **carcinogeneticist**  
jesus, fine! my fucking bad for being curious. 

You tab back to Dave's total lack of messages, and swallow. Maybe you'll luck out and he won't see your message until you're fast asleep tonight. Of course, then you'd have to wake up to whatever his reply might be. So maybe you'll be even luckier and he'll never see them at all. Shit. No, you've got to stop thinking this way. 

You type your message in about ten variations before you literally cover your eyes and hit enter like the big baby you are. 

**carcinogeneticist**  
hey dave, are you invisible?

Two minutes pass without reply, and you let out a guilty sigh of relief, which of course is exactly why Dave replies right then. 

**quit yiffing my butt**  
took you long enough to figure that one out broheim like what the h e double hockey sticks  
im too famous to not be invisible on skype or the legions of fans i once foolishly added on here will totally mob me  
gotta be strategic about my online presence  
make sure i only give them enough to keep them wanting more

He's not even acknowledging that he hasn't spoken to you in days. You can't just leave it at that--but neither can you bring yourself to mention it first. 

But do you have a choice?

 **carcinogeneticist**  
look, uh, about the other day. at your place.   
**quit yiffing my butt**  
you mean the other day when you got angry because i wouldnt let you put your hand down my pants and called me self centered   
no sorry self involved my bad  
since im literally incapable of not being the center of my own personal universe i figured i wasnt allowed to text you ever again  
did i get that wrong too wow sorry its like fuckup city on my side of this conversation   
**carcinogeneticist**  
look, i'm sorry, okay?   
i acted like a total asshole, and i'm the one who's self-involved. i should have left it alone.   
**quit yiffing my butt**  
no shit cumberbatch   
i mean did it escape your notice maybe that i kept asking if you wanted to stop  
i thought a dude who spends as much time on the tumble as you do would know some fucking consent 101 at least  
and you literally got mad because i wouldnt give you mine  
 **carcinogeneticist**  
that is not why i got mad!   
i mean jesus i admit my reaction was all fucking wrong but at least understand where i was coming from!  
 **quit yiffing my butt**  
no dont worry i got it just fine  
like you think that because you think youre unattractive i should take pity and let you do whatever you want  
im pretty sure i got that one right  
 **carcinogeneticist**  
what the fuck do you mean, THINK i'm unattractive?  
should we be taking a trip to lenscrafters here, because i think you need some kind of vision prescription, fucking stat.   
**quit yiffing my butt**  
im not fucking pity dating you like how many goddamn times do i need to spit that before you get it through that rock you call a skull  
i mean yeah how well we usually get along factors into it now that you finally believe im not going to idk slit your throat in the hall at school  
and like okay im gonna give you the benefit of the doubt here that youre not just fishing for compliments but like goddamn okay  
i mean youve noticed youre tall as hell right youre like a goddamn monster in that regard and i mean that in the best way possible because its a definite plus  
and just like  
dude dont make me do this i feel like its weird to explain all the ways in which i am so attracted to your sheer fucking masculinity considering im a dude too so like masculinity shouldnt be such a big deal but it is at least to me  
 **carcinogeneticist**  
whoa, wait, okay, what? masculinity? you wanna try that one again?  
 **quit yiffing my butt**  
no i do not wanna try that one again you ridiculous fuck  
cant you just accept i think youre hot and i want you to not quit yiffing my butt  
make me murr man  
 **carcinogeneticist**  
what the fuck is a murr?  
actually, no, don’t answer that.   
look, i’m trying, okay? i’m trying to accept that your delusions about my looks are just your weird natural feelings, or that maybe you’ve got a kink or something, and that’s just part of the dave package.   
**quit yiffing my butt**  
who the fuck is delusional  
 **carcinogeneticist**  
would you stop that? would you just fucking stop?   
how about i accept that you think i’m hot and you accept the full blown fuckdamn truth that the rest of the world doesn’t agree with you, and never will, because i’m an obese fuck who needs a haircut and a style makeover. and no, the yellow eyelashes don’t work on me like they do on you.   
**quit yiffing my butt**  
will you accept that i dont care about that  
 **carcinogeneticist**  
jesus, dave  
 **quit yiffing my butt**  
im just saying  
like okay yes i will care on some level because it matters to you okay and i know people give you shit about it even though they shouldnt but i guess they cant help being born herniated assholes  
i dont even know if hernias can apply to an asshole but it sounds about right for the kind of person who would treat you like shit over something as insignificant about you being what 200 lbs  
 **carcinogeneticist**  
more like over 300, but hey, who’s counting? besides my quack doctor and also my jackass brother.   
**quit yiffing my butt**  
whatever dude  
okay one more request though before we go back to fully operational relationship status in which i dont listen to my overprotective sister   
oh and by the way rose thinks youre an asshole now  
in which i dont listen to my overprotective sister and go straight home from school without waiting for you to get out  
dont bring up my condition  
please fucking please dont unless i do it first and then i promise we can talk about it for however long but unless i wanna talk about my limp dick and my weird tits first please just fucking zip it okay  
 **carcinogeneticist**  
yeah, i can fucking zip it. as much as there might be evidence to the contrary, i can definitely fucking zip it.   
**quit yiffing my butt**  
alright cool because i have been fucking dying to make out with you i was just like too upset obviously  
can you come over tomorrow after school  
i mean we can also play video games if you want but im hoping youll want to at least do both  
 **carcinogeneticist**  
and here i was getting all reacquainted with my childhood friends with all the free time i suddenly had. no, yeah, i can come over and play video games.   
**quit yiffing my butt**  
video games and  
 **carcinogeneticist**  
what else is there?  
 **quit yiffing my butt**  
video games and  
come on dude dont do me like this  
video games and  
 **carcinogeneticist**  
alright, yeah, i guess we could make out. i guess. i guess i could enjoy making out with some douchebag who looks like you. i guess i wouldn’t totally hate that.   
**quit yiffing my butt**  
fucking sweet  
now lets talk pokemon news

And just like that, you have a boyfriend again. Until you fuck it up again, of course, but you can at least hope that won’t be for a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i also have to say that like the endless river of positive and thoughtful comments from you guys have really kept me at it even at my most stuck so, you know what to do
> 
> feelings, emotions, predictions, epiphanies, lists of what you liked, i dont care so long as its not a straight up marriage proposal like let me know whats on your minds alright im into that


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sex and violence, not necessarily in that order

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyyy so i got pretty inspired as you can see so you have a pretty immediate chapter and it's also the longest chapter to date, clocking in at about 8k, so maybe you'll enjoy it, maybe you'll think it's like the sloppiest work i've done yet, and i do feel like the ending of the chapter is me wanting to get to bed but i could be wrong
> 
> i dont think i can guarantee this kind of inspiration with the next chapter, like i definitely have to ruminate, but we'll see

“I can’t believe you,” Rose says as you struggle to pull this one pair of jeans up your thighs. You haven’t worn them since you were 14, but you were hoping they’d magically fit just for this particular outing. 

“Which?” you ask. “That I stayed with Karkat, or that I can’t get these fucking jeans on?” You roll onto your back on your bed, yanking them back off bit by bit; your calves strain the seams and won’t let go. 

“Both, I think, but mostly the first one. You don’t stay with someone who made you cry.” She steps aside just enough to dodge the jeans you throw at her head. 

“Who said anything about crying? My tear ducts went on vacation like five years ago and then just never came back, those lying pieces of shit.” You acutely remember soaking the shoulder of Rose’s dress with your face, but not even the threat of death will ever get you to admit it. Probably. “They could have at least given two weeks notice.” 

“Of course,” she says dryly. “You’re too big of a man to cry on his sister’s shoulder, which is precisely why you’re trying to fit in juniors skinny jeans from three years ago to come to Forever 21 with Jade and me.” She plucks said jeans from the floor and holds them up by the waistband to inspect the tag. “Dave, these are a size 10."

“So?” You kick your legs up to roll forward into a big Jackie Chan jump off the bed, and drum on your stomach. There are hard abs somewhere in there. 

“Have you seen your butt lately?"

“Well no, since it’s behind me,” you say with a waggle of your eyebrows. 

She sighs with a glare at your stupid joke. “Has it escaped your notice you got the Lalonde posterior gene?"

“Did you say _posterior_?” you guffaw. 

“The butt gene, the ass gene, whatever you wanna call it. Proportionally speaking, your ass is as huge as mine, and it’s definitely bigger than it was. A size 10 is not gonna cut it.” 

“Well I’m not going outside in a skirt.” As much as you enjoy cross dressing in theory, when you’re outside you still want to hang onto at least one comforting sliver of your masculinity. It’s got to be pants. 

“You could borrow something I outgrew,” Rose suggests. “It might not be as _fashion_ —” she wiggles her fingers, “—as these things, but it’ll fit, at least.” 

“Lemme see,” you say dubiously. 

She tosses the tiny jeans back to your side of the room and starts climbing into the back of the closet you share. “You know,” her muffled voice says from behind that one section of clothes neither of you ever wear, “considering this is the first time you’re meeting Jade, I’d think you’d want to present as masculinely as possible."

“We’re going shopping,” you reply. “A boy can’t shop for bras and, you know, traditionally girly stuff.” 

“Sure he could, if he weren’t insecure about it,” Rose grumbles from the depths of the closet. “Here they are.” A folded pair of black jeans sails over the top of the pole, unfolding as they fly to hit you in the face. 

You hold them up as Rose claws her way back out; they’re pretty straightforward black skinnies, still dark with newness, maybe a little high in the rise for your taste, and marked a size 14. You remember now when Bro bought these for Rose, because he thought that as a fashionable teenage girl, she might want the current trend of denim silhouette. She wore them all of once to be polite, and then they were never seen again. Bro learned his lesson, though, and never went shopping for Rose by himself ever again. 

From there it’s smooth sailing, pulling on one of your smaller boy shirts, some meaningless printed T-shirt from H&M that stretches taut over your supported breasts, and stepping into your favorite pair of Adidas that you consider pretty unisex. Rose keeps clucking at you that you should just put on your binder and not worry, that Jade knows she has a brother—to which you say, that’s fine, you can be her cousin Maritza today—but really, Dave, can you not today?

“What, am I gonna be embarrassing you in front of your girlfriend?” you say, batting your eyelashes until you think you might be a little dizzy. “Like I said, today I’m your cousin. My name is Maritza and I’m from the cool side of the family. I mean,” and you gesture to your chest, your hips, “don’t I pass for a girl?” 

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Rose protests, but just barely. “I just wanted to introduce her to you."

“What, all of a sudden?” you say as you shrug on your usual hoodie, then think better of it—you don’t think your sneakers are a risk, but together with a really obvious red hoodie with a tone-on-tone cog print you’re pretty much asking for a classmate to recognize you on the street. Rose lets you borrow her only hoodie, which was her own mistaken purchase, this time. It’s a little roomy, especially in the waist, but not enough to make you look sloppy. 

“No, not all of a sudden, just you’ve been busy with that Karkat boy, and when I thought it was over, I figured you’d have free time and made plans.” Rose only wears tailored jackets and cardigans, which is why she only owns a single hoodie, and she pulls on a slick black jacket with a full peplum and exposed zipper details. “Dave, _please_ dress like yourself.” 

“If you want me out of drag so bad, why do you keep loaning me clothes?” you want to know. 

“Because I have manners,” she sniffs. “I can’t force you, after all. I can only ask you politely. Multiple times. Until you do as I very civilly request of you. Which, again, I’m asking that you _please_ meet Jade as yourself. As a boy.” You can see the begging in her eyes. 

But you shake your head. “Whether you want to introduce me as Dave or Maritza is up to you, so long as my birth name doesn’t get into the mix.” You zip the lilac hoodie up just above your cleavage. Most of your insistence on going out in drag is pure bluffing; if you keep talking it up, the parts of you that are terrified of being called a girl and scared to loosen your grip on your masculinity for even a moment will be quiet long enough for you to get out the door. “I mean, what kind of person are you introducing me to here? If she’s incapable of understanding a dude without a dick, then maybe you don’t have room to be judging me for who I wanna put the smooch on.” 

“No, she’s not like that, even a little bit,” Rose says as you head toward the front door. “If anything, she’s more likely to understand than other people.” 

“What, because she’s gay?” you ask as you head into the hallway to call the elevator. It’s one of those weird ones where you have to open a regular, hinged door to get in once it lines up. “So this might be a surprise for you, but that doesn’t actually usually work out.” 

“You’ll see when you meet her,” she says as the elevator arrives. “It’s for her to tell you, but she probably will.” She eyes your chest as you descend. “I mean, probably.” 

“Look, you don’t get to be all mysterious if you’re not gonna tell me what’s up, so why don’t you stop fucking glaring at my tits and let me find out on my own?” you snap. 

“Fine,” she huffs. “I just wish you’d listen to me."

“Rose, you know I’m not smart enough.” The inner door opens, and you push through the outer door into the green-tiled lobby. “We’re meeting her in Herald Square, right?” 

“On Sixth Ave, yes,” she replies as she opens the front door. “Oh."

One building over you spot Jerry and his crew, and the snap of the door slamming behind you attracts their attention immediately. Federíco is the first one to grin, and then they’re all stretching their faces like hyenas as they swagger over. Rose taps you on the shoulder rapidly, and you immediately head for St. Nicholas, hand shoved in your pockets and head down. All this time you’ve managed to keep them from finding out which building you live in, and now they’ve fucking lucked into it. Your bad luck, of course. 

“Where you going? Lemme talk to you,” Jerry says from behind. Rose’s steps in the heels she always insists on clack close to yours, all the quicker to keep up on shorter legs. “Oye!” He calls you by your birth name. You walk faster, reaching out to pull Rose along by the wrist, and she staggers a little as she’s forced to match your new pace. 

“I said I’m talking to you, bitch!” Jerry snarls. “You keep showing me how you got no manners, you’re not gonna like what happens. I only got so much patience—oye! _Mirame!_ ” You hear stomping, and then you feel fingertips brushing at your elbow. You jerk it away, watching the sidewalk blur under your feet. If you don’t answer, maybe he’ll get bored. And if he gets bored, they all will leave. 

But Rose is no mind reader, and she’s not quite as experienced with them as you are, though she knows to take the same walk home you do to avoid them. “ _Dejale!_ ” she snaps back at them, which is just weirdly formal enough to leave gender out of it. 

“Yo, you hear something?” Manny asks, cupping a hand around one ear as he wrinkles his nose. 

“Nah, yeah, I heard it too,” Jerry says. “Sounds like—"

“Moooo!” Federíco bellows, hands around his mouth like a megaphone. 

“ _Gracias, Federíco, bien amable como siempre,_ ” Jerry laughs. “I mean, that’s what everyone heard, right?” 

Rose pulls you up short, and you try to get her moving forward again, but when you finally look at her, her expression says she’s not here to get yanked around by anyone, least of all you. She turns to face Jerry with her arms free of your hold and her fists balled up by her hips. Manny laughs, and as she opens her mouth to tell them off, he lets out another foghorn call of mooing. 

“Leave her alone,” you say, for Rose’s sake at least. You know about how effective it’ll be. “Don’t you have job applications to fill out so maybe you can get off your grandma’s couch?” 

“Sick burn, dude,” Jerry says with a nasal impression of a white guy and an expression to match. “What’s the matter, you finally gave up on trying to fool people into thinking you had a dick?” Manny and Federíco circle around you, fencing you in. “I mean look, you want a dick so bad, I could give you mine,” he adds with a laugh, framing the V of his crotch with straight hands. 

“If you’re trying to be generous, first you better make sure you have something to give,” you quip back, made bolder by Rose’s presence. Not that she could defend you or anything, but hey, she’s a witness on your side, if anything. Witnesses are fucking crucial if the NYPD get involved. “Ain’t nobody want your gorilla dick.” 

“Gorilla dick?” Jerry asks, snort-laughing with incredulity as he hooks his thumbs into his back pockets and cranes his neck forward. Manny and Federíco snicker, pushing at each other’s shoulders with a hand over curling mouths. “Nenita, all you gotta do is ask, you ain’t gotta say all that.” 

“Motherfucker, don’t you watch Animal Planet? That shit’s a free education you’ve been missing out on, and if anyone needs that shit it’s you,” you say, even as you edge closer to Rose. When he still gives you that look of poorly disguised confusion, you clarify, “I’m saying you got a dick like a cheese doodle, _Jerry_.” And you smirk, victorious over this particular piece of shit for the first time ever. 

Unfortunately that victory is pretty distracting, because you don’t see Jerry coming at you until too late. His fist plows its way into the softer parts of your belly, and you can hear Rose crying out as you go down. The sidewalk reverberates through your kneecaps when you fall to them, but your sister manages to hold one shoulder steady enough to keep you from falling any further. Anger surges through you and you swipe at his legs, but with the wind knocked out of you he manages to skip back out of reach. 

“I told you you wouldn’t like what would happen, bitch!” Jerry crows. “Remember that next time you wanna act like a man. _Know_ I will fucking treat you like one. Watch.” 

“Geraldo.” Bro’s voice cuts through the angry haze of your mind, cold, deep, clear. Adult. It gives you that extra thrill, too, seeing Jerry fucking jump. “I think you need to be at home right now.” 

“You can’t tell me shit,” Jerry retorts, but you can see in his fearful eyes and clenched fists that, yeah, Dirk Strider can tell him shit, and fucking plenty of it. Bro is a Big Black Man, patent pending, big defined arms and a thick trunk of a body from years of labor and maybe a little concentrated weight lifting at home. Next to you, Jerry looks like a brute, but compared to Bro he looks like an overgrown toddler. Manny and Federíco seem to have teleported for how quickly they managed to vanish down the block, probably around the corner onto St. Nicholas. Jerry’s choices are limited, and considering one of them means dealing directly with Bro, you’re pretty sure that narrows it down for him. 

“Whatever,” Jerry grumbles as he slinks away, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie. His lips form a silent _fuck you_ that he doesn’t dare say to Bro’s face, and then he’s gone, crossing the street to head back toward Broadway. 

As you pick yourself back up, rejecting Rose’s offer of help, Bro pulls his wayfarers off and fixes you with a tired look. “You good?” he asks, and you nod. You roll your shoulders forward, tucking in your chest and crossing your arms over them. 

“What’s this about then?” Bro gestures at you broadly, but you know exactly what he means. “You don’t want me to call you Dave anymore?” 

“I’m still Dave,” you say, a quick response to assure Bro that that’s the only name for you. 

Bro crossing his arms is a lot more impressive than when you do it. “I thought you were serious about this. But then you don’t want the therapy, the hormones, and now you’re going out like this?” 

“I am serious!” you tell, which earns you an arched eyebrow from your brother. 

“This whole thing hasn’t been cheap,” he continues. “I can’t afford for you to just be going through a phase. The new clothes, the binders, the name change, making sure your new school treats you right—don’t tell me it was for nothing.” His gaze intensifies, and he calls you by your birth name. 

“He’s cross dressing,” Rose interjects, putting a hand on your very tense shoulder. “Aren’t you, Dave?” 

“I was,” you mutter, glowering at the toes of your kicks. “I’m gonna go back and change.” 

“Dave,” she says with a pained sigh, but you wave her off. The three of you trudge back to the building in silence, Bro walking behind you like you’re toddlers that need watching. Upstairs you peel off Rose’s girly jeans, the tight T-shirt that only emphasizes the womanishness of your body. You struggle into your pull-on binder because it flattens the best and smoothest, pull your slim leg jeans up and down until they’re at the optimal position to downplay your hips. The whole time you dress yourself you say how you don’t know what you were thinking, you’re so much more comfortable dressing like the boy you are, just loud enough for Bro to hear without it seeming like you’re talking to him directly. 

“You didn’t have to do that,” Rose says on the 1 train, the two of you wedged into the corner. 

“No, Bro was right. There’s no point in me cross dressing. I feel more comfortable like this anyway,” you say with a scowl. “I mean, I’m a dude, and I wanna be treated like one, so.” 

“Well also, we’re late to meet Jade now.” The PA speakers mumble something about the last stop being 14th Street. 

“Oh, so that’s why,” you snort. “It’s not that you wanna, you know, defend my ‘right to free expression of gender’,” you say with big air, swooping quotes, “it’s that your girlfriend is gonna have to wait at one of those dinky outdoor tables for an extra twenty minutes. God forbid.” 

“That is not what I said,” she says curtly. 

“But you got what you want, right? You can introduce me as your effeminate-ass brother and she’ll probably only ask you a few questions about my lumpy chest and lack of an Adam’s apple and the voice that goes with it.” A part of you shouts that you’re being unfair to her—it’s not like she didn’t honestly try to defend you, both against Jerry and to Bro. The rest of you, though, stews in resentment and childishness, and says she only did it to stay on schedule. 

“I said she’s not like that,” Rose says. “You’ll see.” She pauses, and then, “See if I ever defend you again.” But it’s soft and sad, and you’re pretty sure she doesn’t mean it. 

“Sorry,” you mumble, reaching over to squeeze her hand. 

“I know.” She squeezes back without looking at you. 

The ride is otherwise uneventful, so long as you don’t count the group of old black dudes singing acapella who only ever seem to perform on the 1 train. Herald Square is as packed as it ever is on a Saturday afternoon, and you grab Rose by the hand to stay together as she darts through the massive throng of humanity. A biting wind blowing down Sixth Avenue makes everyone regret dressing for what March weather is supposed to be like, and as you break free of the crowd and into the gutter, you can see people trying very hard to act like they’re relaxing as they shiver on flimsy folding chairs. 

“There she is!” Rose shouts, pointing dead ahead. She releases your hand to walk at full three inch heel speed, walking diagonally toward the tables and chairs with the light on your side, and at first you can’t tell exactly who she means. 

The first thing you notice is a long denim skirt, and besides wondering where people even buy in those in the year of our lord 2013, your first thought is that Rose has somehow found the universe’s only Pentecostal lesbian. The girl in question is black, darker even than Rose, and her round glasses make her look like a cartoon character, albeit one with model-worthy bone structure. Her box braids are so long—down to her hips—you wonder if her scalp gets sore at the end of the day. You wonder if Rose gives her scalp massages, or wants to. 

“Jade, this is my brother I told you about,” Rose says as Jade starts to rise. Her smile is as cartoonish as her glasses, too excited to be real, but what you weren’t expecting is the sheer height she’s got on you, at least a head if not more. 

“Only bad things, I promise,” Jade says with a bright laugh. Her voice is deep and smooth in a way that gives you a twinge of jealousy. She offers a hand to shake and it’s a strong one, palm impossibly soft. In fact, her whole body looks strong, with broad shoulders and muscular hips you can detect even through her old lady skirt. 

You clear your throat as she drops the handshake, suddenly aware of just how high your usual voice is, even after all that practice speaking from your chest. “It’s, uh, not like there’d be anything good for her to say anyway,” you say in the deepest voice you can manage on the spot. You can feel a blush creeping onto your face, hot and embarrassed. 

If Jade notices, she keeps it to herself. She plants her fists on her hips, shivering in her hoodie. “Where do you wanna go first?” 

“H&M seems as good a starting point as any,” Rose says. Neither of them are interested in your input. Why are you even here?

“Okay,” Jade agrees with a nod. “And then Old Navy?” 

You immediately look at Rose for a reaction—Old Navy is to Rose as garlic is to her preferred brand of vampire. You can see the corner of her mouth twitch, and then she nods in return. “Sounds good to me,” she says without even the slightest strain in her voice. Your eyebrows arch over the tops of your shades, especially when Rose practically beams at the idea. 

“So what has Rose told you about me?” Jade asks as she and Rose set off without warning, leaving you to trot after them. Rose follows a half-pace behind the other girl, and when Jade looks back over her shoulder as she wait for your answer, Rose very surreptitiously—or well, she probably thinks she’s being surreptitious, given the honeyed look of her eyes—sweeps some of those long braids back over her shoulder. You’ve never seen your sister like this, you’re pretty sure. If Jade noticed, she doesn’t let on. 

“That you go to Stuy,” you say, keeping your voice to a mumble where you know you can trust the pitch to stay low. “That she thinks you’re—” Rose catches your eye, and you catch yourself in turn. “That she thinks you’re pretty cool. That you’re a girl from Brownsville. Jamaican, right? Not much else.” It’s hard to get wordy like this. 

“Rose, I’m hurt!” Jade laughs. “I thought we were getting to be best friends.” She pauses with a face-splitting grin, and then bends her knees to add, “Biffles!” 

“That is not a title to which I respond,” she sniffs, but when Jade repeats the word with her hands on Rose’s arm, boisterous and wide-eyed, you’re pretty sure Rose would respond to any nickname Jade gave her, no matter how stupid or weird. 

“She also told me,” you say a little louder, “that you would ‘understand’ me really well, but she refused to tell me why.” 

“Oh, well,” Jade says as you watch Rose’s shoulders pull tight, “I guess? Because I pretend to be a boy at school?” She glances at Rose, whose body language from the back is at least as contrite as it should be. 

“I’m sorry, did you say pretend?” you say, leaning forward with an exaggerated hand cupped around your ear. “Rose, did you tell this nice young lady I _pretend_ to be a boy during New York City public school hours?” 

“That is not at all what I said!” Rose says, turning to face you with a desperate face as you go through the doors of the 6th Ave H&M. “Jade, would you—? Please?” 

“I’m the one who pretends to be a boy, I said,” Jade says with a shrug, heading for the escalator in the back. “Once I turn 18 I’m going to get my name changed to Jade legally. And file to get my legal gender switched, too. I can wait until then.” She clicks her tongue as she gets distracted by tights in spring colors on the wall by the escalator. “Rose told me you already got your name changed, though. Pretty lucky.” 

“Well, as my newly appointed teller of my fucking life story, preferably to anybody and everybody she fucking meets, Rose knew what she had to do,” you say, meeting your sister’s eyes with fervency. “She saw the work that needed doing in terms of spreading my shit goddamn everywhere, and she hopped to it! What a trooper."

“Stop it, Dave,” Rose pleads, and as you open your mouth to tell her hell no, some asshole customer climbing the display accidentally drops like four pairs of tights on your head from above. Heat fills your face when Jade actually giggles. 

“I think,” Jade says carefully, “Rose assumed—correctly—that I was safe to trust about your identity as a boy.” 

“So?” Jade doesn’t deserve the way you’re lashing out, but neither do you deserve a sister who can’t keep her fucking mouth shut no matter how many times you emphasize that your business is none of hers to tell. In fact—

“So, wait. You tell Jade all the fuck about me, but when you’re trying to tell me to dress as masculine as possible because you want to, I don’t know, impress your crush with how trans I am, you won’t even _hint_ at why?” 

“I don’t know! I’m sorry!” You don’t think you’ve ever seen Rose this flustered. 

“Crush?” Jade echoes. Rose looks at her then you, horrorstruck. 

“Well, tit for tat,” you sneer, even as you feel a stab of guilt. While Jade has become totally unreadable, Rose is biting her lip, glaring at you like she thinks it will keep the wetness of her eyes from becoming full blown tears. 

In the end you leave them to it, throwing up your hands as you back away with an _I’m out_. Rose hiding her face from Jade is the last you see of them before you turn around to storm past the security guard. You spend the whole ride home telling yourself you’re not the one at fault here, that Rose didn’t have to look at you like you were the insensitive jerk here when she thought your being trans was some kind of achievement badge for her to impress the girl she likes. She didn’t have to almost _cry_ , and in public, too. 

But you know very well that blabbing her shit in return didn’t make things right. By the time you get back to a very groggy Bro just barely dragging himself out of bed at almost two in the afternoon, you’ve stopped making excuses. Straight up, you suck. You settle into avoiding homework that you’ll make up probably after spring break, which is like, in two weeks or so, and watching Nickelodeon. Spongebob basically never fails to take your mind off things. 

“Turn that shit down by like,” Bro counts out five on his fingers with a groan, “all the way.” 

“No. You should have been up hours ago.” In fact, you turn the volume up. “You’re setting a bad example for me."

“It’s Saturday!” he says. “It’s my one day off, so let me have it.” Outside the opening notes of a Don Omar song starts from another apartment, and Bro groans again as he pulls a throw pillow over his head. You can’t hear Spongebob over the music without turning the TV up to painful levels, so you turn it off with a sigh, and lean against Bro’s butt. 

“Do you really think I’m confused about being a boy?” you ask, just quietly enough that there’s a chance Bro won’t hear you over _Así Es Que Es_. There’s a quiet that makes you think he didn’t, and part of you is relieved even as another feels ignored and resentful. 

“I think you’re as confused as any teenager,” Bro replies, your ears pricking to hear him over the _tumbao_ of the music downstairs. “But,” he continues, “only you can figure out who you are. I can’t tell you, your sister can’t tell you, and not even that boyfriend of yours—yeah, I know about that,” he adds as you give him a startled look, “and no, Rose didn’t tell me. You better not be doing it on this couch. This is a communal piece of furniture."

As you shift down trying to sink into the couch with your red-faced self, trying desperately to play it cool (and failing spectacularly), Bro sits up and holds up his index finger. “In fact, let’s go ahead and set some ground rules. One, we already went over, don’t fuck around on this couch. Mom bought this couch before you were even a thought. Don’t desecrate Mom’s couch. Don’t you melt into Mom’s couch, young man, you gotta listen to this.” 

“I’d rather listen to Rose ask me weird questions about hormone therapy,” you whine, making no effort to sit up. 

“Well too bad, because I’m the one who raised you,” he says, counting off another finger. “Two, I am not raising any more children when none of them are even mine, so I don’t even want a pregnancy _scare_. Like, look, if the condom breaks,” and this is about when your hands find their new home over your ears, “then I’ll take you to the clinic myself, but don’t play it stupid, you get me?” 

“Nnnnnnggguuuhhhh,” is about the only answer you can give as you pull a pillow tight across the top half of your face. You wish the music from your inconsiderate neighbors hadn’t turned to such an explicit track. 

“Number three, if he so much as lays a finger on you then you break his arm like I taught you, and then you come to me so I can break his other arm.” He mimics that motion he taught you as he talks, and you wince. “Number four—”

You lift one side of your ass and purposefully fart with all your fucking strength, staring Bro dead in the eye the entire time. It’s fucking rank and it’s not doing your own nose any favors, but god, anything to get out of this conversation. Anything. You know you’ve won when Bro purses his lips, stands up, and disappears into his bedroom. Without Bro to tell you to behave, you immediately head to the window with the old broom’s orphaned handle that sometimes you use for practicing certain moves, and bang on the fire escape until someone downstairs gets the message and turns the music down. You know it won’t last long, but you’re going to enjoy your victories while you have them. You turn Spongebob back on. 

Rose appears hours later, while Bro is making a giant pot of stovetop mac and cheese with like half the spice cabinet thrown in (not that there’s much in the spice cabinet to begin with). You asked him once if the goddamn oven was broken that he couldn’t make mac and cheese the right way and he made you cook dinner for the rest of the week. You never asked again. You’ve switched to Law & Order SVU by now, and she stops to watch the action for a moment before looking right at you, hands clasped over her stomach. 

“So,” you say, trying not to disappear into the couch too obviously, “did you get me anything?”

“I would say a kick in the groin, because we both know it would still hurt, but,” she says, still giving you an icy stare, “I suppose I have to actually thank you. Even if you were a complete jackass.” 

“Yeah, I know,” you reply with a grimace. “Wait, so, what’s this about thanking me?” 

“Your completely shitty outing of my feelings, as angry as I am about it,” and you shrink under her intensified gaze, “brought some honesty to the surface, and Jade and I ended up talking about it.” She actually _giggles_ a little, softly as she touches her face. “Now neither of us are single.” 

She makes you apologize another five times that night, but she keeps sighing happily, denying it both times you point it out. Bro ignores it, though you theorize that he might talk to her about it when you’re not around. She practically floats into the kitchen when Bro reminds her it’s her night to do the dishes, and Christ, is she humming? Too bad you’re not in the clear to make fun of her for that. Yet. 

It’s the second to last week before spring break, and Monday and Tuesday you manage to claim makeout rights in the apartment because you always get home first, even when you wait for Karkat, so Jade and Rose go elsewhere, like maybe the park or Jade’s place. You don’t know, and when you’re kissing Karkat, hips pulled back just enough that he can’t feel what you lack again, you don’t particularly care. You did move your makeout sessions to your bed, though, afraid Bro will somehow know that you fucked around on the couch in exactly the way he told you not to. It definitely tests your sense of self control. 

Wednesday is Gamzee day, though, and you’re banished to the bedroom because either Bro didn’t have the same talk with Rose about the couch, or they’re not at that point yet. With Rose, it’s probably the latter, but you don’t know yet how Jade operates. Jade stays for dinner, served by Rose and the microwave because Bro is getting home late, and as you watch them interact you feel a certain kind of jealousy building inside you. It’s not that they’re going out at all, or the way they laugh together, because you have that much with Karkat. 

It’s the way Jade doesn’t have to skirt mentions of her body, of not being the “usual girl” physically, of Rose taking it all in stride with fucking stars in her eyes. Sure, you’re wary of Rose’s professed attraction to Jade considering what you’ve had to put up with in the past, but Jade looks so happy and comfortable. They both look happy and comfortable, fingers twining between their hips on the couch before Jade reluctantly says she needs to go home. They linger at the door, and something Jade whispers into Rose’s ear makes her break out into embarrassed giggling. 

And you want that. You want that honesty with Karkat. 

The other side of it is that stupid fucking Bro and his mentions of using a condom with Karkat has given rise to feverish sex dreams at least three times since he said it, and every time you wake up sweaty, ashamed, and most of all completely turned on. Sometimes you don’t even dream it; you get into bed and quietly imagine what it would be like to have Karkat push your legs apart and slide into you, hot and hard and wanting. In real life you still haven’t managed to get him on top of you because he’s always afraid of crushing you for some reason, but in your head you can imagine his weight pinning you, the warmth and softness of his body against yours as his hips roll with your legs wrapped around them. 

As you imagine these things you can hear that chorus in your head—you’re such a girl for wanting this, a real boy would at least want it in his ass, but when you’re clenching your thighs together and debating whether or not to finally just touch yourself it seems very distant and unimportant. 

On Thursday, you consider what life might be like if Karkat knew your entire anatomy and liked you all the same for it, as you guide his hands to your ass to knead it without coming too close to anything you haven’t told him about yet. On Friday morning, you wake up with a new resolve, and on Friday afternoon, you lay Karkat back on your propped-up pillows, and straddle his lap. 

Not unreasonably, Karkat assumes you’ve brought him here for the usual pre-conversational makeouts, and he leans up to kiss you. You pin back his shoulders, and as he gives you a confused frown, you clear your throat and say, “So, okay, something a little different on the menu today. Yeah.” 

“Define different,” Karkat says, crossing his arms in his usual effort to try to hide his belly whenever he’s not otherwise occupied. 

“Well, so, you know,” you say with a swallow, “remember I told you not to talk about my weird limp dick unless I brought it up first?” 

“Yeah?” He arches his eyebrows, but you don’t miss that microsecond of a glance at your crotch, mostly hidden by the puddling fabric of your long T-shirt. 

“So, yeah, I’m bringing it up.” You let go of his shoulders to put your hands over one of his. “I mean, look, you can say no, alright? You can say, hell no Dave Strider, I don’t want to find out what kind of weird shit is going on in your pants, I don’t wanna be touching up on any of that nonsense, and we can go right back to the usual makeout plans and I will even suck your dick, and we can forget about all of this.” Your arms are shaking, although you don’t realize until Karkat uncrosses his arms and holds your elbows steady. 

“How about you let me just actually check it out before we jump to all those conclusions?” Karkat says, and it might just be you who’s already shaking, but you swear you can feel a tremble in his hands on your arms. “I mean Jesus, Strider, give me more credit than that.” 

“Well sheeit, ain’t nobody said nothin’ so sweet to me afore,” you say in a bad Texas drawl that belies your jangling nerves. Karkat slaps you on the thigh with a glare for being so cheesy, and you laugh a weird, hiccuping laugh. “Fine, fuck."

With hands that won’t stop like you’ve have a quintuple shot of espresso in one chug, you lift your shirt away from your crotch, holding it just shy of the bottom of your binder. You never pull your pants all the way up if you’re dressing normally, but to you it’s pretty evident that the denim is stretched tight over exactly nothing, smooth and empty. You gesture, and you meet Karkat’s eyes. 

You can tell before he even opens his mouth that he doesn’t get it, his eyes questioning under knitted brows. “You have... A micropenis?” he guesses delicately. 

“That’s one thing you could call it, I guess,” you say, one fist planted on your hip as you tap the side of your head thoughtfully. “Like if you wanted to be accurate in the vaguest of scientific ways, but be totally wrong in layman’s terms.” 

“Is there any actual reason you have to turn this into some kind of obnoxious fucked up guessing game?” he grumbles, giving your crotch another glance. 

“Because I’m a Strider, and we have a goddamn family tradition to be as obnoxious and overly complicated as possible. You want me to let down my ancestors, dude?” You take one of his hands as you talk, your other hand working to pop your fly. “I can’t be an even bigger disappointment than I already have been.” 

“What are you doing?” Karkat wants to know, cutting right through all your babbling as he eyes the trajectory of his hand you’re holding. 

“Okay, so new tactic, right? Instead of you just like, taking wild guesses at what I’m packing, let’s just stick your hand down my pants and see what you find. How’s that sound?” 

“That was your plan to begin with, remember?” You can practically hear the alarm bells going off in his head as you lay his hand on your lower belly. You wonder just what the fuck he might be imagining you have below deck, especially with how evasive you’ve gotten about it. 

“Was it? Cool,” you say, suddenly aware of the sweat on your forehead and temples. “Okay, but no, are you in or out?” 

His fingers jump a little against your stomach, and then he nods. “In.” His tongue takes a swipe across his upper lip as he swallows hard. “Yeah, I’m in.” 

“Okay so, alright. Yeah. Alright.” You take his hand in both of yours, your thumbs pressing maybe a little too hard into the heel of it. His hands are so much thicker and more masculine than yours, as soft and nail bitten as they are, with wispy white baby hairs on his knuckles. He flexes that hand in your grip and you loosen it, muttering a quick _sorry_. “Yeah, alright. Three, two...” You swallow, too. “Two and a half... Two and a quarter.” 

“Dave.” 

“Yeah, Jesus, fuck. Alright, three—two—one—” You slide his hand down along your modest treasure trail, and a second later you feel his fingers wiggling under the waistband of your boxer briefs and through your pubes. He gives you this expectant look, like _where’s the weird shit?_ and you grit your teeth before pushing his hand further down. You can feel his fingers, warm but not warm enough yet against the heat of your genitals, barely touching where the skin forks into a vulva. His eyes widen. 

His lips form the word _girl_ soundlessly—you’re sure of it, you can always trace the exact shape of that word—and you slap a hand over his mouth, glaring down at him as you brace your other hand against his shoulder. “No,” you say, although it comes out a little strangled and high because that is the exact moment his fingertip finds your clitoris, pushed there by your shifting on top of him. “Don’t—no, alright? Fucking _no_.” 

You take your hand away, and he immediately shakes his head. “I didn’t say anything!” 

“You said plenty, you just forgot to put breath behind it,” you snap, putting your free hand on his other shoulder to loom over him. It’s pretty fucking weird to argue with a hand in your underwear, his wrist stretching the elastic. “Let me make something clear, Mister Karkat Vantas. I am _not_ a girl, will never _be_ a girl, and even when I thought I was a girl, I was _not_ one.” 

His mouth opens, and you shush him immediately. “I swear to god, Karkat, if the next words out of your fucking sass hole aren’t ‘Let me get you off’ then I will pull your hand out of my pants and I won’t even do you the courtesy of licking it clean. You’ll have to go home like that, do you fucking get me?” 

Karkat nods rapidly, biting his lip. 

“Say it.” Your hips shift just slightly enough that his finger brushes gently against your clit again. 

“Let,” he starts, then licks his lips with a deep breath, “let me get—” Another deep breath, this one with closed eyes. “Let me get you off.” 

“Alright,” you agree softly, rearranging yourself to brace yourself against the wall instead. 

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Karkat admits, even as he traces probing circles around your clit, making you shiver, thighs weak around his hips. 

“Do that, like a lot of that, and stuff like it,” you say from between your teeth, eyes hooded. “Do that.” 

He tries. Electricity shoots through your whole body every so often when he finds the best spot, but more often than not it’s just a pleasant buzz and as he rubs more of those circles, instead of an orgasm it’s your frustration that’s building. You’ve never touched yourself before but you still shove your own hand in your underwear, wrapping around his, and you take control as you grind down hard against his fingers. You can hear Karkat yelping in surprise even as you whine happily with the new pressure. 

There’s a lightning storm in your spine when you lean down to kiss him, his fingers dangerously close to slipping inside you with how fast and sloppy your movements are. Karkat’s come so many times in your hand by now, and at least twice in your mouth—you fucking need your own release, even if you have no idea what an orgasm looks or feels like in your fuckup of a body. How are you supposed to know without the obvious signifier of ejaculation? You hope, you fucking pray, with every sensation that makes your junk ache and spark, that you’re heading blindly toward it. 

“Dave,” Karkat whispers, and god, you didn’t think it would feel so good to have him say your chosen name even as his fingers are probably pruning between the lips of your supposedly female genitalia, “do you like it? Are you gonna come?” 

“I—yeah, I think so,” you grunt, but you’re not sure how truthful that is. You’re growing more lost and upset as the sensations plateau, and with a frustrated groan you pull both your hands out to dismount Karkat’s lap. 

“Wait—what’s wrong? What did I fuck up now?” he asks, panic rising in his voice. “I’m sorry, whatever it is, Jesus fuck, I’m sorry!” 

“No, not—just open up your pants,” you say as you shove your own pants down violently, underwear and all. Maybe Karkat could have thought he’d only imagined he’d touched a vagina later, but with the evidence of your dickless crotch and curvaceous hips staring right at him, he doesn’t have that option anymore. You catch him staring before he scrambles to do what you ask, although you notice again that he pulls his shirt down to cover the bottom of his belly, and he barely pulls his pants down. But at least you can see his dick. 

You stop to pull your socks off, thinking of all the porn you’ve pointlessly browsed where dudes keeping just their socks on always bugged you, and then you swing a leg over Karkat’s to lower yourself against his already hardening cock. His expression is mostly confused, but that quirk downward of the corners of his mouth and the quick bob of his throat gives away his underlying fear, and you stop, thumb brushing against his cheek. 

“Do you wanna stop?” you ask. 

He shakes his head. “I just... What are you doing?” 

“Getting us both off,” you answer, and you reach down to press the head of his cock against the head of your clit. Introducing them. His eyelids flutter as a shaky breath escapes his lips. Just looking at it, his dick looks pretty average size, maybe even a little small given the size of the rest of Karkat, but pressed up against you it feels gigantic, like if it just _happened_ to get inside you it would stretch you, fill you, and you groan at the thought. The GIRL! chorus is so distant you barely hear it. Fuck them. Fuck those imaginary little douchebags and their synchronized yelling. 

In the end, he comes dangerously close to your junk, shooting up to hit not only his shirt but your fucking wall, too. You still haven’t gotten off but at that point, you figure, it’s over. Karkat’s not going to want to keep going when he’s already satisfied—why would he? You laugh at his trajectory as he apologizes furiously, running to the kitchen as he tucks himself in to grab paper towels. 

With your sex drive dying down like a sigh, though, you sit alone in your room and curse your needlessly complicated body, your fucking vile betrayer of a body, that you doubt will ever be what Karkat wishes it was. A compromise of a body for the both of you. 

And now that he knows, you think maybe you should start counting down to him leaving you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> youuuu know the drill, tell me everything on your mind, especially with the sheer length of this one i know there's a lot to talk about
> 
> tbh your comments keep me on track so the more the merrier
> 
>  **edit** okay, two things  
>  • i moved continuity back a week because i forgot about a thing, so please remember that going into chapter 15, which is surprisingly already in progress  
> • i cannot stress enough how much i want you to please, please stop leaving cissexist remarks referring to dave's biological sex in the comments section, not just because it bugs me but because it might trigger other readers and from here on out i will be deleting such comments without even acknowledging them. i know most of you are not guilty of this but i feel like i've had this happen like every other chapter and i would just rather it not. you guys KNOW i love comments, but not if they're made just to call dave a girl. again.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which karkat can't get his shit together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **PLEASE CHECK THE TAGS SECTION FOR NEW TAGS! I ADDED SOME TAGS THAT ARE PERTINENT TO THIS CHAPTER SO PLEASE!! MIND THEM!**
> 
>  
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>  
> 
>  
> 
> okay so!! i'm looking for a job again haha so, i don't know when the next chapter will be, because i had to quit after my boss hit me on the clock! but i feel like i'm on a roll because i've been writing not just on the train but at home, willingly and consistently, so maybe this is a good sign overall. anyway, some notes from the end of chapter 14, worth reiterating: 
> 
> • i moved continuity back a week because i forgot about a thing, so please remember that going into this chapter  
> • i cannot stress enough how much i want you to please, please stop leaving cissexist remarks referring to dave's biological sex in the comments section, not just because it bugs me but because it might trigger other readers and from here on out i will be deleting such comments without even acknowledging them. i know most of you are not guilty of this but i feel like i've had this happen like every other chapter and i would just rather it not. you guys KNOW i love comments, but not if they're made just to call dave a girl. again.
> 
> that said i tried to fancy up the texting in this chapter while keeping it accessible for screen readers with alt text so i hope it works out. i have no idea how it'll port to epub and mobi files so i guess we'll all find out together! haha

Your brother’s spring break from Cornell is the week before yours, and you dread it with every cell in your body. Your dad promised you at least five times he wouldn’t let Kankri be an asshole to you, but considering how few friends Kankri has and how late your dad tends to get home some nights—most nights, lately—you don’t exactly trust in his protection. True that Kankri will probably have projects to work on, but nothing has ever stopped him from finding time to concern-troll you about your weight for your so-called health. 

You get back from Dave’s place still feeling a little shaken, and already you see Kankri’s stupid ugly Tom’s slip-ons by the door. You sneer to yourself as you pull off your own sneakers that if your brother was so desperate to be white, then maybe he should have been the one born with albinism. With his long nose he’d probably make it look better, too, pass for French or something instead of just weird bleached Mexican, _what are you, anyway?_

“Is that you, Karkat?” Kankri calls out from the back of the apartment. His diction and accent make him sound like he’s from fucking Ohio; you may not have much of a recognizable accent, either, but at least you don’t strain yourself trying to pronounce every single consonant while filtering out that New York _aww_ that Kankri said makes you sound uneducated. You told him the word he was looking for was _maleducado_ and he just scoffed before walking away. 

“No, this is the police. Hands in the air, you’re under arrest for shitty taste in sweaters.” You shrug off your bookbag, let it hang from one hand as you head toward your room. It sounds like Kankri is in your dad’s room, probably chilling out on the bed. You don’t miss the days of sharing a bedroom with him, making it a much more cramped space. When he went off to college, his old twin bed immediately went to your older cousin Fabiola, whose kid had outgrown the toddler bed converted from his crib. Now whenever Kankri comes home, he sleeps on the couch—or in your dad’s bed on nights when your dad falls asleep on the couch, which he claims is better for his back anyway. You have your doubts. 

“Banana Republic is a marker of good taste,” Kankri replies as you pass through your bedroom door. “And you can’t even see me right now, how do you know what I’m wearing?” 

“I took an educated guess,” you say dryly as Kankri appears in the doorway of the master bedroom. “Oh, look, I was wrong. Not an ugly sweater. An ugly shirt.” You don’t understand his obsession with turtlenecks, like this Land’s End looking number in an eye-searing cherry red; you don’t think you’ve seen his neck in years. Doesn’t he know white people wear V-necks? 

“It’s not ugly, it’s classic,” he sniffs. “You’re one to talk, you know. What shopping options do you even have?” 

“Something better than turtlenecks,” you say as you slam your door in his face. You can hear him making his displeasure at being disrespected known, and loudly, but the door muffles it enough that you can ignore it. You take a seat at your computer, pulling on headphones to fully block out your brother, and turn on The Magnetic Fields as you wait for Skype to load. You don’t really like leaving it open while you’re away, especially knowing Kankri was coming home. When you lay your hands on the keyboard your hands are trembling, and you lift them to clench your fingers briefly. Tavros is online, and that’s exactly who you need. 

**carcinogeneticist**  
tavros, my main man, my obnoxiously happy friend, my anchor in this emotional storm called adolescence  
 **adios, toreador!**  
Hi, Karkat!  
What do you want?  
 **carcinogeneticist**  
look, let’s just skip the whole cute banter thing we do where we practically bat our hypothetical eyelashes at each other, how about? i’m just... i’m seriously freaked out here, nitram.  
 **adios, toreador!**  
I think it’s sweet you still call me by my old Internet handle like it’s a full name.  
But, uh, yeah, what’s up?  
 **carcinogeneticist**  
it’s dave, it’s fucking dave, he  
look, there’s parts i can’t tell you without betraying his trust, okay?  
 **adios, toreador!**  
Uh, yeah, I can handle that. Tell me the parts, you think you can?  
You sound kind of, I mean I know you said already you’re freaked out, but you sound like, actually freaked out.  
 **carcinogeneticist**  
he told me something really, really fucking big, something really secret, and then he followed it up immediately with the most aggressive fucking sex.  
aggressive as in just barking out orders, like telling me to just open up my pants already, grabbing my hand and putting it places.  
 **adios, toreador!**  
Um, Karkat, that sounds kind of...  
 **carcinogeneticist**  
sounds what?  
 **adios, toreador!**  
I just, don’t want you to be upset with me, okay?  
I mean, are you okay?  
 **carcinogeneticist**  
if you’re asking if i feel violated, then yeah, a little.  
but it feels kind of selfish to feel that way considering what the fuck he told me!  
 **adios, toreador!**  
Which is, let me guess, the part you can’t tell me,?  
 **carcinogeneticist**  
ding ding fucking ding!  
i mean okay, look, let’s not make this out to be worse than this is.  
he asked me if i wanted to stop. he always does.  
and i never want him to actually stop, because  
well, you know what i look like.  
i’m fucking lucky he’s delusional enough to think i’m attractive.  
 **adios, toreador!**  
I think, that you should stop ragging on yourself, you have your own charms,  
 **carcinogeneticist**  
let’s not do this.  
 **adios, toreador!**  
Okay?  
 **carcinogeneticist**  
i think i’m just gonna go do the good boy thing and actually do my homework instead of overthinking this. i’ll see dave tomorrow and it’ll be fine.  
 **adios, toreador!**  
If you say so!  
I, hehe, already finished my homework, so my evening is, freeeee and cleeeear.  
 **carcinogeneticist**  
you’re a giant nerd trying to pose as a punk with that hair, but i know the truth about you.  
 **adios, toreador!**  
And you’ll die, with that knowledge, Agent Vantas!  
 **carcinogeneticist**  
okay, no, i’m not going to let you drag me into fucking rp, i’m not that kind of nerd today.  
 **adios, toreador!**  
But maybe tomorrow? I kind of want to pick up our Digimon RP again.  
I’ve been watching episodes on my own since we haven’t been able to hang out as much, so maybe we can advance the plot beyond the Digimon Kaiser arc?  
 **carcinogeneticist**  
yeah, yeah, i know, it’s my turn. it’s been my turn for a week.  
i might hit you with a tag tonight, okay?  
 **adios, toreador!**  
}:D  
 **carcinogeneticist**  
i literally never understand your emotes.  
 **adios, toreador!**  
It’s like, horns? Because I’m a bull? Tavros? Bull?  
 **carcinogeneticist**  
i’m going to do my homework.  
 **adios, toreador!**  
Hasta luego! }:)

You minimize Skype with a groan; you make friends with the hugest nerds. Sure, you’re pretty nerdy yourself, but they definitely outnerd you. You feel marginally better, but not enough that you don’t stop grinding your teeth. You get through like twenty minutes of homework before you give up to sneak to the kitchen for snacks, and your phone buzzes in your pocket. When you slide your finger under the corner of the rubber seal of the fridge door, it opens in near-silence, and as you snort at the stupid gimmicky soda Kankri’s put into the door shelving, you check your phone. It’s a text from Dave. 

This shouldn’t be making you so fucking nervous. You steal one of Kankri’s hipster sodas and root around in the silverware drawer for a bottle opener before you realize it’s a twist-off, considering how to reply. The soda doesn’t really taste like anything but seltzer, and you wonder how much he paid for this. 

Another quick buzzing means he’s responded, but you can’t look—in fact, you shut off your phone, and go engage yourself in mindless scrolling on Tumblr for the rest of the night. You don’t get to sleep until hours after midnight, kept awake by a nameless anxiety that sings through your nerves the few times you try to sleep before you just pass out from exhaustion. 

In the morning you don’t feel much better, and you wake up so late all you have time for is a cursory shower of your gross body and to choose the least unflattering outfit you have before running out the door. The only blessing you have is that Kankri apparently left hours ago, and your dad is still asleep. 

Dave straddles your lap now instead of kneeling between your legs, grinding on you until your precum spots your underwear. He’s more passionate than ever, and it shows in the ferocity of his kissing, his moans as he grabs fistfuls of your hair. He asks you in rushed whispers if you want to stop as he kisses your ear, asks again as he grasps at your dick through cotton, and again as he pushes your naked genitals together, dangerously close to penetration. And every time, you say no, don’t stop, because what else can you say to him? He trusts you so goddamn much. 

In fact, Dave is so happy to trust you that half an hour after you come against his palm that’s holding your cock against his vulva, once he’s whupped you a good few times at Mario Kart—will you ever win at this game?—he’s kissing you again. You kiss him back, and at first he seems gentler, running his hands along your belly lightly before you swat them away. Then he’s grabbing violently at the hem of your shirt, reopening your jeans, and it’s all you can do to get him to leave your shirt on. 

By the time you go home you’ve come three times in a single day, although you managed to get some good item luck with Mario Kart and beat Dave in exactly one race. You feel exhausted and used and god, you just don’t want to talk about it. Kankri gives you some backhanded compliment about how that outfit very slightly downplays your size; you just walk past him. Nothing ever upsets you enough to not eat, which is another one of your faults Kankri loves to remind you of, but you do so in the privacy of your room, your messenger applications closed. Dave texts you again, reminding you that the only reason you couldn’t stay the night was because of his little twin bed and his sister, and that you should come over around the same time tomorrow. 

Sunday is barely any different from Saturday, except this time he manages to get his hands three inches up your shirt before you grab his wrists and pretend like you just _happen_ to want his hands elsewhere. You don’t want to hurt his feelings, after all. 

Monday you can feel that certain restlessness permeating the building, every kid vibrating with the knowledge that spring break is only a week away. You meet Dave and Gamzee after tenth as usual, but when you see that hungriness, that anticipation in Dave’s eyes and bitten lip, you take a step back and nudge Gamzee. You lie. You have plans with Tavros today, and didn’t you tell him? No? You’re sure you did. You feel like shit for manipulating him, but the relief is too real when you see his face contort with self-doubt. You squeeze his hand surreptitiously (you hope) as you part ways, and once you’re a solid avenue away, Gamzee elbows you sharply in the waist. 

“The fuck was that about, dude?” he wants to know as you wait at the crosswalk. 

“The fuck was what?” You want to play dumb, but no, Gamzee knows all your tells, and he actually slaps you across the knuckles when he catches you squeezing the straps of your bookbag. 

“That dude got like, not even stars, he got whole goddamn galaxies in his eyes looking at your ungrateful ass. You better not be dumping him.” You’ve never had Gamzee’s anger aimed your way before, and you don’t think you like it much. “He is _dumb_ good to you.” 

“Yeah, I know,” you mumble. You can’t tell Gamzee Dave’s secret, so you can’t explain to him just why looking at Dave fills you with dread now. 

“And let me guess, you ain’t got no such plans with Tavros, either.” 

“You caught me.” The light turns, but instead of crossing Gamzee throws a long arm across your collarbone, stopping you, too. 

“So what, you just ain’t gonna tell me shit?” He’s fucking _glaring_ at you and you can’t help but gulp a little. “I know we’re tighter than that, Karkat, come the fuck on.” 

“I can’t tell you. It’s Dave’s secret I’m keeping,” you say quietly, and the arm falls away from your chest to flop at Gamzee’s side. “So, no, there’s not really any shit I can tell you.” 

“Well shit, man. Haha. Fuck,” Gamzee says, scratching the back of his greasy head as you watch the light count down from 25. “You wanna go to Wendy’s, then?” 

“I never want to go to Wendy’s,” you say, but you figure, hey, maybe it’s been long enough since your last major tangle with Brandon that you’ll be able to handle him when he comes at you. (There is no if.) You let Gamzee lead you up the street, surrounded by thronging teenagers with cravings for sodium and sugar, and you join one of the many lines actually laughing quietly at something dumb he said. You can survive this. 

Upstairs Brandon sits in one of the corner booths with his posse, and you spot that obnoxious violet streak of hair before you see Eridan. He looks about as happy as he ever does. Brandon is too busy telling a story that might involve squeezing giant breasts—or an ass, his gestures are kind of nonspecific—to notice you coming up the stairs, and you herd Gamzee toward one of the tables by the windows that’s just been vacated. That means it’s covered in crumbs and fry salt, and there’s even a ketchup smear, but nothing a handful of cheap napkins can’t cure, right? You think this table might even be out of Brandon’s line of sight. Maybe you can even indulge in a bite of burger, free of guilt and anxiety. 

But as Brandon finishes his story, or at least that’s your guess because there’s _the_ most raucous laughter coming from that direction, you make the huge fucking mistake of glancing his way. Look, you tell yourself later, it’s only natural for any animal to look for the source of a sudden, loud noise. About as natural as it is for a predator like a Great White Brandon to make eye contact with his prey and fucking _smile_ with this nasty little wink. You swallow hard around the sudden tumor of anxiety that’s grown in your throat, and fucking Gamzee, Gamzee motherfucking Makara, he’s such a caring friend he asks you what’s wrong. Out loud. And the guffaw from the corner tells you Brandon heard it. 

Your veins tie themselves in knots and your lungs curl up on themselves as you wait for it. Any minute Brandon will swagger on over here, thumbs hooked into his belt loops as if that’s what makes him intimidating, your ex-friend in tow for extra fuck-you points. Any second now he’ll be here to put an unfriendly hand of faux-brotherliness on your shoulder and ask you if you got dropped in a vat of bleach as a baby, compliment you on your ongoing efforts to bulk up—as his crew snickers even louder at his choice of words—but it doesn’t come. You don’t dare look to see if he forgot about you, but his shadow remains firmly _not_ cast over you. You wonder if maybe you should just relax, listen properly to Gamzee’s story about this chill dude with a mohawk he met that he describes as being “bara". You know he learned that word from you. 

Gamzee finishes his last fry with a smack of his lips as he sucks the grease off his fingers with about as much shame as usual, and starts to pack all his garbage into the big paper bag all his food came in in the first place. Without interruption, he’ll always finish every scrap of food in front of him. “You wanna bounce?” 

“Nah, I’ll just grab my legs and roll down the street like Thudbutt.” You shrug into your bookbag that you hung on the back of your chair, because you always keep your hoodie on if you can. Gamzee gives you this puzzled snort and you just shake your head. “Yeah, let’s go. We can hang out at your place.” 

“On a not-Wednesday? Oh my stars,” Gamzee says as he pulls his own hoodie on. “Lackadaisy! What’s a gentlewoman to do with such an honor?” The nonsense words sound so bizarre in Gamzee’s scratchy voice that you dare to laugh, and you realize just how wrong a move that was when you head down the stairs and hear chairs scraping across the floor. 

It could be anyone getting up, the restaurant is full of people and any of them could be finished with their food, you tell yourself as you follow Gamzee out the front door. Was the whole group even finished eating? Why waste food? No, it probably wasnt them. 

But you know it’s them. Even before you hear their jeering behind you as you reach the next block, you know they’re following you. Gamzee is fucking oblivious, and he wants to stop in this fucking Duane Reade to “see a dude about an exchange of goods,” the enterprising piece of shit. All he probably hears is the usual Manhattan noise. You go inside with him despite his insistence that you don’t have to, that you can totally wait outside, but he draws the line at you following him downstairs. Certain people prefer not to be known, he says to you, and then he leaves you stranded in the greeting card aisle. A sitting goddamn duck. 

Fuck everything. 

The doors slam open not far from where you’re standing, and you start walking toward the beer fridges in the back. Maybe if you stay on the move, they’ll get tired of following you around the store and leave, and then you can go play God of War in peace at Gamzee’s place, take a couple hits off his stupid purple dragon bong to take the fucking edge off this strangling anxiety about basically every aspect of your life. Your ears quiver toward the sound of the laughter you know is theirs, picking out Eridan’s loud kind of goofy laugh you used to think was weirdly charming, and Brandon’s cruel, cartoony laugh a little louder than that. Your heart kicks against your rib cage like it wants out, _now now now_ ; you walk faster, wondering where that bead of sweat rolling down the side of your face came from. 

“Soo-eee,” calls out a voice you know is Brandon’s, followed by another burst of laughter like in the Wendy’s. They’re close, like the next aisle over close, and you’re dead, you know it. You’re the fat, ripe hog and they’re the hunters with words for rifles. You squeeze your eyes shut as you swing into the makeup aisle at the dead fucking end of the store, praying Gamzee will finish his stupid, inconvenient transaction and come up to save your sorry ass. Please, please, please...

“Karkat, I was fucking looking for you!” Brandon calls out as he rounds the corner behind you. “Dude, are you avoiding me? I thought we were better friends than that.” Your frantic heart kicks all the way up into your throat. If you keep walking, like you don’t care what this 1996-born douchebag has to say—

“I’m talking to you, Karkles!” Brandon says. Your stupid elementary school nickname that Sollux came up with, the one no one is allowed to use anymore—Eridan must have told him. You grind your teeth. “Is this how you treat friends?” 

“Fuck off! Fuck off, fuck off, fuck _off!_ ” you shout over your shoulder as you barrel toward the end of the aisle. “Leave me alone, Brandon!” 

“I’m hurt by your unfriendliness,” Brandon says with a tsk, just as Eridan appears to block your exit. 

You could knock him over. You know you could. He’s short, he’s skinny, and despite his current choice of company, he’s never lifted a weight in his life. If he has there’s certainly no evidence of it. He’s got his arms crossed like he thinks he’s a threat. Then you look at his face, and he looks so fucking sad, mouths _I’m sorry_ like he really means it. 

That’s all the time Brandon needs. Strong pale hands push you against the backlit Maybelline poster, hot against your face and belly, and you see Eridan turning around to play lookout as you hear Brandon’s whispering voice, damp air rolling across your ear. “I heard all about it, faggot,” he says, almost like he’s excited about it. The wet sound of his lips being licked makes you flinch. “What, you don’t tell your friend Brandon about your homosexual leanings?” You hate his laugh, even when it’s quiet. “This is America, dude, we don’t judge a man by how many cocks he wants up his ass.” A horrible little whimper escapes your mouth without the slightest fucking bit of permission, and Brandon laughs again. “You like that, huh?” Eridan glances over his shoulder just as Brandon snakes his arm between your bodies and takes a generous handful of one side of your ass to squeeze until it hurts. The little weasel looks away in a hurry. 

See, this is why you should ignore how much it would vindicate Kankri if you started lifting weights, because then maybe some asshole a year younger and a half-head shorter than you wouldn’t be able to pin you with literally just one hand and the shoulder of the other hand that’s digging painfully into the flesh of your ass. It’s not like you’re not struggling every second, because you know what it means if you just let it happen to you, like a born victim. You shut your eyes against Brandon’s laughing, against the slurs that tumble out of his mouth like a stream of vomit, and he shoulders you hard against the display until the plastic rattles, says _Pay attention, you fat piece of shit_. 

Suddenly all that low chuckling turns to a hiss of pain, and the dense weight of Brandon’s body vanishes. You open your eyes to find that Eridan has vanished, too, but more than that Gamzee has Brandon by the back of his neck like a bad puppy, a scowl painted across his handsome face. Brandon claws at the long brown fingertips pressing into his thick pale neck, but there’s something jerky and weak and _wrong_ about his movements and fuck, you don’t want to know what Gamzee did. 

“I know you’re desperate to have a family fuckin’ reunion with your cousin, Brandon, but what, you can’t wait until you graduate?” Gamzee says, giving Brandon a little shake. Brandon wheezes, which makes you wonder if it’s loud enough to reach the front. Then again, most underpaid retail employees don’t like to deal with teenagers, and this is Prime Teenager Hour. “I’m makin’ you _not_ die right now, and I’m not really feelin’ the appreciation right now. Appreciation is _lacking_. Lemme hear it.” And he drops Brandon at last. 

“Fuck you, I’m not afraid of you!” Brandon gasps as he steadies himself on all fours, but god, the look on his face, the heavy quick breathing, it all says otherwise, an you’re not ashamed to revel in it. “You’re not your brother, you’re just some loser stoner dropout who probably watched too many horror movies.” 

“You know, they used to say that shit about Kurloz, too,” Gamzee says, his tone more suited to discussing the weather. “Ain’t sayin’ that shit no more, are they, though?” 

Brandon just glares, though he still doesn’t get up. 

Gamzee looks at you like he just noticed you there. “You go on home,” he says. “Get some real lunch.” You take a few nervous steps back, and he shoos you with this gentle little smile. So you walk out of the Duane Reade, no one following you, definitely no one fucking with you. You don’t stop shaking until Rawson Street. 

You open your front door and all you want is for Kankri to not be home, which is exactly why the first thing you hear is your brother complaining. You can’t tell yet what his issue is, but you can hear him rattling boxes of dry goods in the cupboards. If you can just get past the kitchen and into your room—

“Karkat!” Kankri is shrill as he leans out of the kitchen doorway. “When is the next time Dad’s going grocery shopping?” 

“I don’t know? Why does it matter?” You don’t break your stride, eyes trained on your door. 

“Because there’s no _nutrition_ in anything he’s feeding you.” He huffs out his nose, coming to stand in the hallway and putting his hands on his hips. “Karkat, you _know_ I worry about you, and god knows you don’t need food fried in an inch of oil—Karkat, don’t walk away from me. I’m trying to look out for you.” 

“Like fuck!” you snap, rounding on your heel to face him. Blood rushes to your face like a monsoon, making you blotchy and even uglier, but fuck is it worth it to see the way he actually stumbles back. “Are you _ever_ going to just fucking _shut that entire anus you call a face_ about what a lardass you think I am? You don’t know _shit_ about my life, all you _ever_ do is talk about how huge I am!” 

“Excuse me?” he asks, imminent danger lacing tight around his words. 

“I said leave me the fuck alone!” you shout, stamping your foot so hard you hear the drinking glasses clink against each other in the kitchen cupboards. “I hate when you come home! Stop pretending you give a fuck about me and just be honest about how disgusted you are by me!” 

“I’m not—”

“What do you even know about me?!” you demand, taking a step toward him. “Besides how much you think I weigh! Besides that I’m fucking albino!” 

“Why am I on the spot? I could ask the same of you!” he splutters. “What do you know—”

“I know that you’re twenty years old, I know you’re majoring in sociology, I know you _tell_ people you honest to god listen to only the Beatles but you actually love Julieta Venegas because you can still understand most Spanish, even if you can’t really speak it anymore, and as Spanish-speaking artists go she’s pretty non-threatening in case your white friends find out.” You count these items out on your fingers as Kankri stammers out a bunch of half-words in protest. “I know your favorite food is straight up chiles rellenos even if you act like this big organic locavore now, and I know you actually, honestly enjoy those pretentious fucking poetry readings you keep going to because you go to more than one every time you come home, which is totally unnecessary just for building cred as a well-rounded, educated and worthwhile Mexican.” 

“Well that’s a lot of very good guessing, little brother,” Kankri says with a sniff, but his hunched shoulders and crossed arms tell you about how many nerves you just struck. And how correct you are, how well you know this asshole despite how much you loathe him. “I know you’re seventeen, I know—” He holds up fingers to count on, too, but already he’s arrested. “You struggle with your sexuality,” he says with this finality and this _smirk_ that says he thinks he’s won this round. Like he found your most intimate secret, proving that he still Knows Things about you. 

“Oh, wow, you found me the fuck out! You got me, flatfoot, you put in the hard detective work and you Law & Ordered the fuck out of me. No homo? No, definitely homo in _this_ family! Plenty of homo!” You throw your hands up; Kankri doesn’t look impressed. “Okay, but let’s clarify something, alright?” you continue, holding up one angry finger. “Struggling? No. In fact I have a _boyfriend_ —”

“Well I hope for his sake, then, if you’re sexually active that you stay on bottom,” Kankri says with an arched brow. “You could seriously injure him if you don’t.” 

“ _Fuck you!_ ” you bellow. Already you’re walking backwards towards your room, baring your teeth at your brother. “This is why I fucking hate talking to you! This is why I hate _you!_ All you want to be some smug, superior Ivy League rich white dude but you’re _not!_ You’re not! You’re just another job-stealing, lazy sí-señor motherfucker to them!” 

There’s this ugly silence between the two of you, Kankri rolling his lower lip between his teeth as he frowns at his toes, at the wall, anywhere but you. “I know,” he says at last, quiet as he fingers the collar of his turtleneck. “I know.” He tugs the collar up higher, clears his throat, and the silence resumes. You start to turn away from him, and he starts talking again. 

“I hated you, when you were a baby, you know,” he says, jerking his hand away from his neck finally. “Because you came out so milky and white.” Suddenly you want to escape this conversation, your shoulders tensing to send a spike of ready-made soreness into your neck. “But I figured out I had to watch out for you. My little brother.” 

“I have to do my homework,” you blurt out, and something twists in Kankri’s expression. It’s not anger, at least, but it still makes you feel sick inside, makes you wish you could skip back five seconds in time. He sighs. You retreat into your bedroom as fast as you can without running. 

At least he doesn’t come after you. You sink into your computer chair and roll up to your desk, pulling on your headphones. It’s always the same with you. _Stop me, oh, oh oh stop me..._ You come home scared about something, anything, and you need middle-aged white dudes singing about their imaginary problems to calm you down. _Stop me if you think that you’ve heard this one before..._ And of course, you need to talk to Tavros before you fucking pop. There’s nobody like him. Your phone buzzes and you push it into a drawer. 

**carcinogeneticist**  
i know you’re around and i know you’re not busy, because if either of those were not true you would never dare sign into skype, being the good boy you are.  
 **adios, toreador!**  
Hi, Karkat! Yes, I am a good boy, the best boy, I win competitions at being a boy,  
 **carcinogeneticist**  
i need to talk to someone who isn’t going to fucking crawl up my ass about every little thing, and today, the lucky winner of that title is you.  
please?  
 **adios, toreador!**  
Uh, yeah, always! I am always glad to, uh, not crawl up your rectum. That’s not really, where I wanna be,,..? But yeah,  
 **carcinogeneticist**  
i just can’t fucking deal with today, like i’m getting to the point where i’d rather slip into a fucking coma than deal with one more day.  
 **adios, toreador!**  
Oh, uh, no, don’t say that :(  
 **carcinogeneticist**  
you forgot the horns that time.  
 **adios, toreador!**  
Sorry, just, the thing you said,  
Do you want the horns?  
 **carcinogeneticist**  
yes, give me the horns, tavros. i love horns. since the last time you were here, i found a huge weird lot on ebay of nothing but mounted bull horns and now my room is covered in them.  
 **adios, toreador!**  
}:(  
 **carcinogeneticist**  
that looks like jetray from ben 10 now, not horns. obviously you have to actually make honest to god emotes in mspaint.  
 **adios, toreador!**  
Who?  
 **carcinogeneticist**  
never mind. i’ll put it on our to-watch list after digimon tamers.  
why are there so many things you’ve failed to watch? i have so much work ahead of me.  
 **adios, toreador!**  
Okay, but seriously, what’s wrong? You started to tell me, and then you got all, uh, distracted, by the horns, and also, cartoons I’ve never seen? Did something happen today? Or, yesterday, or whenever?  
 **carcinogeneticist**  
today? today i got assaulted in the fucking duane reade near my school by brandon fucking reid.  
 **adios, toreador!**  
What?!  
 **carcinogeneticist**  
yesterday? oh, and the day before, too, my boyfriend asked me for sex SEVERAL fucking times, and every shitmangling time i said yes, like he didn’t force me to say yes i fucking said yes on my own, and somehow that translates into me ignoring all his texts and avoiding him after school lest i have a goddamn panic attack!  
 **adios, toreador!**  
Wait, what,?  
 **carcinogeneticist**  
i don’t fucking know! that’s what i need to talk to you about, because, i don’t know, every time i talk to you i figure things out! figure my shit out for me, tavros, because i sure as fuck can’t!  
 **adios, toreador!**  
I, uh... I don’t know, what is it that’s making you anxious? I mean, uh, specifically, I mean. About Dave. The things he’s doing, is what I’m talking about, that I’m asking about,  
 **carcinogeneticist**  
i don’t know! i don’t fucking know! he gets really into it and like, i don’t know if he needs glasses? if he just has really poor taste in men? he wants to take my fucking shirt off, tavros, he keeps trying to get me NAKED!  
 **adios, toreador!**  
And... That’s a problem for you?? I guess? I mean, I don’t... This isn’t... I don’t know anything about sex, I’m sorry, or even wanting to do it, so, I probably can’t really help you, with this part of the issue...  
 **carcinogeneticist**  
yes it’s a fucking problem! of course it’s a fucking problem he’s trying to expose my shitty blobby body! of course it’s a problem he keeps grabbing my hair and yanking on my clothes and just! fuck!!  
 **adios, toreador!**  
So, uh, alright.  
Let me, assess what we’ve got here, uh...  
 **carcinogeneticist**  
i mean jesus, i don’t fucking deserve him! he told me this big fucking secret that of course i can’t tell you, you understand  
 **adios, toreador!**  
Of course, yeah?  
 **carcinogeneticist**  
and he trusts me so fucking much with it, and he’s weird enough to find me attractive, like not just aesthetically but sexually, and today i lied to him and said i had plans with you and that’s how i ended up in a duane reade with that asshole calling me a faggot and touching my ass, so i guess i got my just deserts.  
 **adios, toreador!**  
No, no, nobody deserves that, Karkat! Least of all you, I mean, definitely not!  
 **carcinogeneticist**  
maybe.  
what’s definitely true is i’m an asshole, and dave deserves better, and i still don’t know what’s wrong with me that i can’t just roll with how much he likes me.  
 **adios, toreador!**  
Well, I’ve been kind of, thinking about it since you said the thing about, hair grabbing,  
Would you say, maybe, it’s your insecurity about your body, and also? Also that maybe, he’s a little too violent, for what you want?  
 **carcinogeneticist**  
violent? who said anything about violence?  
 **adios, toreador!**  
Uh, you did. When you said you don’t like how grabby he is and how he pulls you around, and, grabs your hair? And how he’s too aggressive?  
 **carcinogeneticist**  
i don’t know. i should appreciate what i have.  
 **adios, toreador!**  
I think, what you should actually do, is talk to him about it, and tell him, you don’t want him to be so rough with you.  
I mean, maybe, thinking about it more, maybe it’s because, Brandon is enough violence, for you? And, you don’t want that with Dave, obviously, because you like him, so...  
 **carcinogeneticist**  
see, this is what it is. i hate how much smarter you fucking are than me, but it’s because you’re so fucking smart that i can talk to you about this shit and you have the answer in like, ten minutes’ time. maybe less. i might as well be a fucking slug for how lost i’d be without your bright-eyed guidance.  
 **adios, toreador!**  
No problem, amiguito. }:)  
 **carcinogeneticist**  
ah. you brought the horns back.  
 **adios, toreador!**  
I thought you said you liked the horns? }:(  
 **carcinogeneticist**  
no, the horns are great. keep the horns. keep the horn game strong, my son.  
 **adios, toreador!**  
Are you going to text Dave? Or Skype him?  
 **carcinogeneticist**  
yes, jesus, i’m going to contact him in some technologically sound way, don’t fucking worry, i got the message.  
 **adios, toreador!**  
Okay, well this timing worked out pretty well, because now I’m going to watch a movie with my family! So, good luck, with Dave, and you have to tell me how it goes. Bye! 

You scoop your phone out of the drawer, and you were right, the texts you missed were from Dave. He’s just texting to say have fun, and yet you swallow around the mass of nerves that have suddenly gathered in your throat. For a little while you just look at the screen, tapping it whenever it dims. The screen is cracked from the previous owner, and you run your fingertips gently over the lines of the damage, trying to gather your courage. 

There’s a short pause, and then the small grey bubble with the ellipse pops in and out of existence so rapidly you wonder what Dave’s even trying to type. 

Then you turn your phone off, unable to handle much more Dave than that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i can imagine maybe some of you are feeling some anguish and if so please elaborate on that, like a lot, and just,, pshaw you guys know the drill already, i don't have to run this down for you again. comments really keep me going and productive, and again, can sometimes shape the story!


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> conversations, plural, and dong, singular

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another long chapter! i really hope you still find my writing strong in this one, because for sure i had moments where i felt i was faltering. 
> 
> also, i have to say—i am so overwhelmed by all the long, thoughtful, and flat-out warm comments i have received over the course of this fic, but especially lately. it gives me such joy as well as a sense of purpose to see how many people connect with my writing, how many people are so affected by it they feel the need to tell me in detail, and whenever i felt like i couldn't write this thing anymore because of writer's block or just LIFE getting in the way, your comments pulled me through. so, thank you so much, to all of you! 
> 
> you may have also noticed that there is now an official end chapter listed above. i'm hoping to actually adhere to that, but you never know with me!

Right now there’s no one you resent more than your sister. It hasn’t even been two weeks since your little tantrum pushed her and Jade together, and already they’ve settled into watching movies together without so much as an argument over what to watch. They sit quietly on the couch, Jade tucked under Rose’s arm with her feet curled under her butt, and sometimes Rose just runs fingers through her braids. Maybe it’s just a honeymoon phase, but you don’t remember having any such phase with Karkat. Then again, things are pretty fucked with him right now. 

Normally on a Tuesday, Rose and Jade are—well, not here, anyway. You don’t actually know if they go to Jade’s place or just hang around in public, maybe looking for secret places in parks to kiss and touch, because normally Tuesdays the apartment is yours until Bro gets home, because you get home first. After Karkat bailed on you after school, you texted Rose with your confusion, and somehow she took that to mean she had apartment privileges. You’re still waiting for them to lock you out of your own bedroom. 

“I just don’t remember him saying he had plans with a friend today,” you say, on the other end of the couch, which makes you a little too cozy with Jades’s toes. “I would have remembered that.” 

“Yes, you’ve only said so about five times,” Rose says with a dry voice and a face to match. “Careful, Dave, you’re starting to sound like Miranda from that one show.” 

“You mean Charlotte,” you grumble. “Charlotte is the one with control issues.” 

“Whichever one you want to be, dear brother. We’re trying to watch a movie.” She even raises a hand to blot your face from her vision. 

“I’m just saying!” you say. Jade sits up, leaning back to give Rose enough room as she tosses the throw blanket over your head. You can hear them giggling as the couch shifts by your feet, which is Jade settling back against your sister. 

In the dark of the blanket you lift your butt to pull your phone out, the screen lighting your woolen cave. Good timing, too, because it looks like Karkat is already typing. You smile to yourself, running a thumb along the side of your phone. He probably just forgot his plans until today and didn’t want to look goofy in front of you. In fact, those plans were probably made months ago, before you even met. Karkat wouldn’t lie just to get away from you. 

Except that he wants to talk. About something specific, and not right now, not until after school tomorrow. 

The whole relationship flashes across the backs of your eyelids as you close them against the harsh glow of the message. Every wrong word, every misinterpreted look, every touch followed by a _wait, no, stop;_ how could Karkat not be tired of you? The unexpected—and probably unwanted, no matter how many times Karkat assured you that no, it didn’t bother him—layout of your body made the perfect excuse to get away from you. It takes you ten tries to reply with something that’s neither out of character nor bitter, and as you look at your delivered message you know you failed at at least the latter. You bite your lip, taking a deep juddering sigh, and suddenly the blanket is being pulled off you. “What are you doing under there?” Rose asks with a wry smile, before that smile becomes a frown. 

Rose wants to interrogate you, but Jade tugs her away with a shake of her head. They leave you alone on the couch. The bedroom door snaps shut behind them, and it’s just you and—what is this movie? Is this a John Hughes movie? Even in your current state, you’re not too out of it to think Rose should know better. You turn that shit off. Until Jade’s half-assed attempts at being quiet come through the door, and even The Breakfast Club is better than hearing a breathy voice giggle out your sister’s name. 

You end up texting John for the rest of this godawful movie, though you don’t actually mention anything is wrong. John actually _likes_ talking about which colleges he’s looking at and how many he’s already applied to; normally you’d tell him to shut the hell up, because you’d rather not think about how you haven’t made a single move in that regard—and how unimpressive your grades are—but this time you let him ramble on. For once, the way John has his life so _together_ helps take your mind off what a mess you’re making of yours. 

By the time the girls emerge from your room, looking rumpled and satisfied—you don’t want to know, you _don’t_ want to know—you’ve calmed way down, lulled half to sleep by the repetitive motions of thumb-typing. There’s an Adventure Time rerun playing that you’re ignoring, and John is volunteering his opinions on your current strength training regimen, which you totally didn’t ask for because he’s just kind of naturally strong, the asshole. But it’s better than no distractions at all. 

They kick around the kitchen for a while, Jade’s giggling echoing louder than whatever it is they’re talking about. It’s fucking seven thirty by the time she’s finally meandering toward her jacket and shoes, though Bro isn’t home yet, and as she passes you by, your hand darts out to tug on her sleeve. She almost doesn’t notice as she sweeps past, but you tighten your grip and pull her short. 

Rose shoots you a puzzled look as you follow her girlfriend out into the hall, which turns to a look of irritation as you block her path to quickly close the door behind you. Jade pushes the button as you pull the latch shut, and you both shove your hands into pockets. 

“What’s up that you couldn’t tell me in the kitchen?” she asks as the elevator starts to lurch into action downstairs, counting down how long you even have on this little talk. Magically, it’s not fucking helping. 

“Okay, so,” you stammer as the chains of the ancient elevator rattle. “So like, what would you do if Rose broke up with you for like, basically no other reason than you not having the expected girl parts? Like,” the elevator sounds a little louder, “how would you handle that?” 

She shifts onto one leg, crossing her arms as she frowns at you. “Well, to be honest, I wouldn’t because Rose would never do that. It’s like asking me what I would do in the event of like, an alien invasion, like what would I do if a bunch of mean grey aliens busted down my door?” The frown twitches upward, like she’s laughing to herself at the thought of said alien invasion. 

“Okay, well,” you say, tapping your foot rapidly as you cross and uncross your arms. “I’m asking you to use your imagination, here.” 

“You’re worried about your boyfriend, huh?” She snorts, which is not exactly the sympathetic reaction you were hoping for. Aren’t girls supposed to want to coddle sad gay dudes? “Look, this is the only advice I can offer you. If he’s dumb enough to break up with you over what you do or don’t have in your pants, was he worth it in the first place?” 

“Yeah,” you sigh, kicking an imaginary rock. 

“Ennh! Wrong!” she buzzes, flicking you hard enough between the eyes that you yelp and put both hands over the booboo. “I don’t have any real advice, okay? I don’t know why you thought I would. If anything I’m even more lost about this whole gender thing than you are, and I’m not even older than you.” She shrugs as the light of the inside of the elevator rises into view of the porthole in the door. “And don’t tell Rose I flicked you, okay?” 

“We’re cool,” you assure her as she swings open the door to the elevator and steps inside. “What flick? I didn’t feel no flicks. That’s the shit you see for fifteen fucking dollars in midtown. Don’t even know what a flick is, singular.” 

“Attaboy.” Her voice is muffled by the heavy door, and she waves to you with a grin as the inner door shudders closed. You wave back at the door, but she’s already gone. 

You don’t really feel any better about tomorrow. 

For once Rose doesn’t quiz you as you come back inside, either about you conversation with Jade or what news you got that was so bad you were tearing up on the couch like a big baby. She sits reading this nerdy fantasy book that looks like it was printed a million years ago and has been through hell since, something something _Valdemar_ , with her feet braced against your thigh while you text John links to Korean clothes you want and can’t afford. Bro comes home with half a lukewarm pizza pie and puts on Zoolander, which drives your sister into the bedroom with a groan. Bro gets the extra slice by default. John claims neither of you have the shoulders to pull off any of these looks, which you know isn’t true because that boy is built like a brick shithouse. 

In the morning you wake up buzzing with anxiety. It doesn’t fucking matter how cool you try to play it, how many times you told yourself last night you were worried about literally nothing. Today’s the day Karkat’s going to break up with you. You might as well dress nice for it. 

School is bullshit. You forgot breakfast because you were about to be late, and consequently you have no lunch, either. Your head swims and your hands shake as the end of the day approaches. You don’t see Karkat after lunch period because you whisk right into the stairwell, and you crash into some hapless freshman who calls you a faggot. School is _bullshit_. 

You consider, as you jog down the stairs in the foyer, the idea of just fucking off on the crosstown, force Karkat to text you or tell you online that he never wants to see your nasty surprise of a body ever again. But Gamzee spots you from his illicit perch on the mailbox, and though you don’t doubt he knows all about Karkat’s plans to Discuss Things, capital D, capital T, he gives you this utterly clueless grin and even calls out your name, the piece of shit. You push him off the mailbox, and once the security guards are cleared until the end of last period, you clamber up yourself. Gamzee talks about this dude he’s been making friends while you’ve “up and kidnapped my best friend,” this charming goody two shoes with a wicked sense of humor who, he confides with a note of surprise, he doesn’t feel good enough for. You don’t exactly know what to tell him, though you’re glad for conversation that doesn’t revolve around Karkat. 

The bell rings out from within the building, a deafening _ooooo_ even out here on the sidewalk, and your stomach clenches. Karkat is always one of the first kids out because his last class is on the third floor on the north end of the building, and there he is. He squints and bares his teeth against the harsh mid-afternoon sun, which glints across his yellow hair until it looks like a second sun approaching you. He and Gamzee share a look when he reaches you, which ties another knot your stomach didn’t need, and Gamzee salutes you both with two fingers before jaywalking across the avenue in the middle of the block. 

“Alright,” you say as you hop down from the mailbox. “If you’re gonna break up with me, at least let’s do it in the park instead of one of us wasting a fare. Like let’s at least be economical, right?” 

“Who said anything about breaking up?” Karkat asks, though his sun-snarl doesn’t exactly inspire confidence. “I said I wanted to talk about something in particular, not negotiate the terms of your surrender in—” His mouth twists as he realizes the comparison is getting away from him. “It’s not that, alright? I don’t even know where you got such a weird idea.” 

“God, it couldn’t be because you sent like, one text saying you wanted to talk, and nothing else the rest of the day, right?” you snort as Karkat starts heading toward the corner, leaving you to jog after him. “Like in the entire history of human relationships, a solitary ‘we need to talk’ followed by no actual talking has never routinely precipitated breakups, or pseudo breakups along the lines of ‘we need to take a break from each other.’ I have no basis for my dunkass idea that you no longer wanted to deal with me in the capacity of a relationship, especially considering what I so recently revealed to you—”

“Jesus, fuck! I get it, alright?” Karkat barks as you turn up the block, not willing to wait for the light at this crosswalk. All roads lead to Rome, or in this case, the subway station so long as you’re heading toward the park first. “I’m fucking sorry I freaked you out, okay? It’s not like I know what I’m doing.” You hurry slightly ahead of him to catch sight of his face, and he’s rolling his lower lip between his teeth. “I didn’t think I’d ever be dealing with, you know, relationship stuff. Ever.” 

You look around, make sure the coast is clear—and swing your arm to squeeze Karkat’s hand, even if it’s only for a second. “Yeah,” you say, “I know.” 

“We can go to my place, for a change, if you want,” he says, soft as he stares ahead. “My brother won’t bother us, and your sister won’t interrupt us.” 

“Interrupt what, the lecture?” you snort, but when he doesn’t respond to that, you lick your lips and say, “Yeah, that sounds good.” 

Karkat’s neighborhood lives in the shadow of the 7 train, breezier and shadier than Washington Heights. He leads you away from the trestle, and on a particularly empty block you walk closer together to hide the way you tangle your hands together. Maybe he was just using the ol’ We Need To Talk to get you into Queens. You wish you could lean your head on his shoulder. 

The apartment is eerily quiet. You copy Karkat and toe your shoes off, padding the short distance from the front door to Karkat’s room. There’s these Mexican-looking weavings up on the wall (which makes sense given Karkat is, in fact, Mexican), and a goddamn sombrero embroidered with metallic thread hung over the TV. Best of all, there’s a framed poster of an Aztec beefcake standing on a mountaintop and holding a swooning woman in a matching outfit in both arms, like the cover of some pre-Columbian romance novel. Someone is seriously into their heritage, even the tacky parts. Karkat walks by all this incredible shit like it doesn’t even exist. 

When he sits you down on his bed though and clears his throat like three times, though, the anxiety you thought you’d assuaged comes shooting back through your every vein, paralyzing you. He grits his teeth, socked toes climbing over each other. “So, the thing I wanted to talk to you about. The specific thing I texted you about, that I told you I wanted to talk about, when I texted you.” 

“I think I know which thing you’re talking about, this particular topic that you brought up in a text message sent to my phone and nobody else’s,” you reply, digging your own toes into the round red rug half-tucked under Karkat’s bed. “Maybe you should tell me what this exact thing is, that you want to discuss, with me, here in your room, specifically.” 

Dead silence for a full minute, as Karkat sucks his lips between his teeth and pokes a big toe out through a hole in his sock. Then—

“It’s the sex, Dave.” Your intestines writhe and wrap themselves around your stomach to strangle it. “The way you do it...” Your lungs go on strike. “I can’t deal with it.” 

Wave after wave of cold sweeps down your back, your fingers suddenly weak and strange and nerveless. Karkat reaches for your hand and it’s limp, a dead animal cradled in the warmth of his palm. “Dave.” Your knees are very interesting, suddenly, and you even briefly distract yourself with the memory of being young and stuck in a bathtub and thinking your bent knees looked like the tops of elephants’ heads. “Dave.” He gives the corpse of your hand a shake. 

“W-what is it, is it the fact that I keep my binder on?” you ask, startled back into the present. “Is it the downstairs arrangement? Because I gotta tell you, comrade, those surgeries don’t come cheap, and bottom surgery isn’t even that good yet—” 

“No, it’s not—it’s not either of those things!” Karkat blurts out, his hand tightening around yours as he flushes red in the low light of his shitty lamp. “What kind of fucked up bigot do you think I am? Why would I care—” 

“Because everyone cares!” you retort with your own interruption, pulling your hand away. “Everyone gives a shit about whether I’m acting too feminine and therefore must not be sure I’m a boy, or whether I’m acting too masculine because they can’t _believe_ I’m a boy, because of the way I was built!” You shove your hands under your armpits, glaring at your knees. “Everybody’s all up in my shit all the fucking time, so yeah, my conclusion is that everybody cares _hardcore_ about what I got up under my outfit!” 

“It’s not _about_ that!” Karkat shouts in return, fingers curling around fistfuls of blanket. “It’s—it’s the way you fucking grab at me, Dave! Jesus!” One hand flies up to give the same treatment to his hair. “I’ve been trying for days to figure out how to tell you, and right when I finally have the stupid words about to come out of my stupid mouth you delay it some more!” 

“Grab—grab at you?” you stammer. “Like—what? You want me to not touch you??” 

He sighs, releasing both his hair and his covers. “That’s not what I mean. That’s not even what I _said_. How the hell did you get that I don't want you to touch me anymore?” He snorts. “I'm fucking grateful that you want to at all.” 

“Karkat.” It's like a self-deprecation contest up in here. You sigh too. “But alright, fine. Then what's the problem?” 

“Okay, so, imagine you're me, right?” he says, gesturing to himself. “You're like, eight hundred pounds of washed-out Mexican, just trying to get through your day as a living specimen, and what happens? Some musclebound asshole throws you against the wall and, you know,” he takes handfuls of the collar of his sweatshirt, “grabs at you.” 

“Brandon? You're talking about Brandon, right?” you ask, but Karkat ignores the question. 

“Okay, so you're done getting thrown around, right? You go home, and hey look, it's your brother! Who wants to talk about what a fatass you are, and how you're gonna die soon, and you don't need to eat _that_ , and he keeps his hands to himself but it's kind of like he's, you know,” he pulls at handfuls of his hair, “grabbing at me, just mentally.” Karkat sighs again. “Look. All I want is for the literal best part of my life right now to be something where nobody _grabs at me_. That's all I want.” 

You lick your lips as you jiggle one knee, pulling your thumb and index finger around your mouth like a beard. “So,” you say slowly, divining his message, “you want me to be less... Aggressive. Is that it?” 

“Yeah.” He's so quiet when he says it, like he's waiting for you to tell him no. “That’s all I want.” 

“I'm aggressive because I'm into you!” you say, and now you're the one going in to take his hand, which you give a squeeze and a shake. He snorts like he always does when you tell him anything about how fucking attractive he is. “I'm serious, Karkat! About both things. I'm not trying to like, rough you up on purpose.” 

“Then fucking stop it!” he snaps, sending you reeling back. “I’m telling you what I don't like, you say you don't do it on purpose, so fine! What the fuck's the problem?” 

“Because I still don't know what you want me to do!” you admit, putting your hands up in surrender. “I mean, you still want me to touch you, like at all, right? Can I still fucking express with my body that I find you sexually attractive, can I act like your fucking boyfriend?” 

“Yes!” he roars. “Fucking yes, Dave Dumbass Strider, you can touch me! I goddamn love that you even want to! All I’m asking is for you to be fucking _gentle_ with me because I’m a delicate fucking flower that doesn’t like his hair pulled! All I want is to not feel like a fucking masturbatory aid! Apparently I'm asking the goddamn world—”

“Masturbatory— _what?!_ ” you howl, your hand flying to grip his shoulder. He tears away and surges up off the bed, and you're left sitting with your head pressed between the vice of your hands. “What the fuck does that even mean? Masturbatory aid! What?!” 

“You're smart, you know what words mean!” he retorts, gesturing violently at you with both hands like he's throwing his words at you. “Figure it the fuck out!” 

“So, what, I'm a—” The word sticks to your tongue like a burr, ugly and sharp, and you have to swallow it down, try again. “Are you calling me a rapist?” 

“Wh—no! Fuck! How—”

“Because you said I'm _using_ you,” you say, and now you're jumping up off the bed, too. You're about half Karkat's size, but he still takes a quick step back, an obvious flash of panic rolling through his whole body. A frustrated sigh tears from behind your teeth. “What kind of fucked up game do you think I’m playing, Karkat? I mean, ahaha, _look_ ,” you say, leaning back against the bed, hands tucked under your ass to show how little of a threat you mean to be, “if you want me to slow down on the sex? If you think it’s too much? Fine! Whatever! I can grok the shit out of that. But _using_ you?” 

“Don’t give me that shit!” he snaps from the far corner of his room. “Like you don’t know how I fucking operate!” He leans against his dresser, raking his hands through his hair one after the other. “I know I’m a paranoid piece of shit, alright? But like, the other day, when we spent at least half the time—messing around?” It’s not quite a frown as he bites his pinkie knuckle; in fact, it looks like that scrunchy face that comes before the storm of crying one’s eyes out. You almost bite your tongue trying to decide whether you should go up to him or not. “People have never not been fucking with me, Dave. I mean, my fucking best friend! Since kindergarten! Completely played me, and all for friends he doesn’t even like.” 

“Eridan, you mean?” you ask, pulling yourself slowly back onto his bed that stands higher than yours. Your hands are still shaking. 

“Fuck that dude,” Karkat mutters. “I’m glad he looks so fucking miserable all the time.” He glances at you, and when you pat the duvet next to you, he finally ambles back over. 

“I knew you guys used to be friends but I never actually heard what caused the split,” you say as he sits down by you. With his long legs he doesn’t have to hop up the way you do. “I mean, you don’t have to tell me now, or ever if you don’t want to, but like, if you wanna tell me, I’ll listen.” 

Karkat snorts, turning his head toward the wall. “It’s a boring story.” 

“Yeah, well, some movies you go see no matter what just because you like the main actor,” you say, giving him a little nudge with your shoulder. 

“Fine.” He looks at you with one lip clamped between his teeth, and your hands sneak toward each other to hold and squeeze. “I mean, look. I knew he was a crappy friend before this, I’m not _entirely_ fucking clueless. I just thought he was still at least a friend, even if he was bad at it.” 

“Yeah.” There’s no point in platitudes. 

“So I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” Karkat continues with a nervous soft laugh, “but Eridan is a huge loser. So like, last year he decided to, you know, fix that glaring error in his life, in his opinion, anyway. Like it just _slipped his mind_ to not be a giant sack of shit. But of course, I didn’t know he’d made that decision when he told me he wanted to hang out after school. Normal, right?” He clears his throat with a frown. 

“So I go with him after school, and who does he have with him? Brandon fucking Reid, and a few other dudes—he’s always kind of changing up who he keeps around him, I guess because he’s always finding meaner guys. And Eridan is like—” and here Karkat’s voice cracks a little “—‘I told these guys about you, and they wanted to meet you!’ Which is not a lie, but, well. I’m pretty sure you can figure out the lie by omission, there.” 

He bites his lip again, frowning deep as he closes his eyes and takes a shuddering breath. “They got me to—fuck. Fuck, no, I can’t—” 

“You don’t have to, you don’t have to,” you reassure him, squeezing his hand again. Not that it does much, you’re pretty sure, but what the fuck else can you do? 

“Look, suffice to say,” he says with a little shake of his head, “they got me to do some embarrassing shit because I was naive enough to believe it was all in the spirit of goofing off and making friends. They took _photos_ of me doing embarrassing shit. Of me in embarrassing poses, looking fucking _happy_ doing it, too, and when they got posted online for a whole lot of other students to find—and believe me, they did,” he interrupts, wagging a finger as he purses his lips, “the little asshole didn’t even have the fucking decency to tell me, maybe at least give me a goddamn warning. Piece of shit.” 

You both fall into silence for a heavy thirty seconds before he clears his throat again. “Anyway, maybe now you see why I’m such a paranoid sack of shit.” 

“Yeah,” you say, moving like you wanna lean on him before pulling back. “Yeah.” 

“I wasn’t calling you a—I didn’t mean to even _imply_ you were, you know—”

“I know.” Fuck it. You lean on him, and he seems to relax right into it, which can only be good. “And you know I like you, right? Like, sincerely, like I am so attached to you we might need surgery to separate us again soon. I am _not_ fucking around with how much I like you. And,” you add, “trust you.” 

“I’ll try to suck less,” Karkat snorts, his head resting heavy and warm on yours. 

“But look, alright? I get it now. You want,” and you thread your fingers up through soft cornsilk hair, “to be treated like the delicate princess you are.” 

“Dave!” He sits up, and so do you. 

“Kidding! Jesus. I meant prince, obviously. I’m just your big macho princess that has to come save you, because if we have to be a fictional hetero couple, then we’re doing role reversal or my legal name ain’t Dave Strider,” you say, jabbing your thumb against your collarbone. “And it is, so get me my battle gown, I’ve got a dragon to slay so I can, you know, climb the castle tower to make sweet, gentle love to my prince.” Karkat blushes at that, like most of the shit you say, but at least he’s smiling. “I got you.” 

“Yeah, alright.” He doesn’t kiss you or anything, but he does hold your hand and entwine his leg with yours, and for now you guess that’s okay. You figure you should let him take the initiative from now on, anyway, given how bad you apparently are at reading people. 

An hour later Karkat’s brother comes home, and maybe you see some of where Karkat’s self-esteem issues come from, because Kankri is an intensely beautiful, slender man in his early 20s, with hard eyes and a mouth that defaults to a look of disapproval. He wears a red V-neck shirt, and around one side of his neck are yellowed bruises that you try not to look at. When Karkat introduces you, Kankri’s handshake is stiff like he tries to make a formality out of everything. 

“I’ve heard a little about you,” he sniffs. The bruises look like fingertips might have made them; Kankri does catch you staring this time, and he looks equal parts flustered and angry as he slides his hand over them. He glares at Karkat and whips off into the kitchen. 

“He wasn’t so bad,” you remark as Karkat takes a seat on the couch. “Not even homophobic or anything.” Karkat pulls you down by the belt, and you fall back into his arms. 

“We talked about something recently, got some things cleared up, so he’s been less of an asshole since. Still basically an asshole, though,” he says, adding a little _oof_ when you push his arms away and start climbing around the couch to get behind him. “Dave, what—”

“I’m the big macho princess, remember?” you say as you sink down behind him. “You’re a tall delicate prince, though, so scoot down.” He obliges without another word, and though his shoulders kind of dig into your flattened breasts and his head lays heavy against your sternum, your heart fills, flutters, explodes with warmth as you brush his hair away from his face. 

“I can hear you talking about me, little brother,” Kankri’s grating voice sings out, “and I’ll have you know, I don’t talk about _your_ private affairs with colleagues when I’m on campus.” 

“That’s because you don’t talk to anyone,” Karkat mutters, which gets him only a _What was that?_ from Kankri. “Nothing!” 

“It would behoove you to do the same for me as I do you, anyway,” he says as he emerges from the kitchen with a tall glass of water. “I don’t suppose you remembered to offer your guest anything to drink.” 

“Dave knows where the kitchen is.” He digs around next to his hip for the remote, and hands it up to you. “And he knows how to pour a glass of water.” 

“Typical,” Kankri sneers, before disappearing again, this time into his father’s room. With your almighty power of the remote, you pick a rerun of Storage Wars. Karkat’s body pins your hips, his breath even as you toy with his hair, easier to play with than yours. You want to grab hold of him, run your hands down the front of his body just to _feel_ it, feel how human he is and how a real, live person has agreed to cuddle with you during mediocre TV despite knowing _all_ about you. 

But Karkat is your delicate prince, now, you promised him. You twine fingers with him when he lays a hand up on his shoulder, squeezing it like that’s all you want from him. 

You make it the rest of the week, somehow. Your couch is still bigger and your selection of channels bigger than that, so you don’t make any more trips to Queens, but now Rose and Jade join you because as far as you know Karkat just doesn’t _want_ sex anymore. Your kisses are chaste, your touches practically Catholic, and when Jade is in the room Karkat sits straight up, pulling the fabric of his hoodie out of the crevices his rolls make and even trying to suck in his stomach, you can tell. When you ask him what that’s about when you’re alone, he waves you off; when you press him again, he begrudgingly admits that Jade’s good looks intimidate him. You grab him by the face—gently, you tell yourself for the umpteenth time, almost too late—and remind him just how gay you are for him. 

So you have to wonder, as you happen upon the box on your dresser Monday morning, the first real, official day of spring break, if maybe Bro is aware of your newfound celibacy and is turning it into a joke. 

TG: john  
TG: john im gonna die please  
TG: please john i only leave this weird third party client open for you dont make me have to close it  
TG: i cant believe the shit in my life  
EB: ?????  
EB: i’m just waking up  
EB: what happened?   
TG: what happened he asks  
TG: what happened  
TG: ill tell you what happened  
TG: that fucked up dude who half raised me is playing some kind of fucking joke on me  
TG: like thats the only thing i can guess here  
EB: what joke? i’m the jokester around here.  
EB: i’ll be the judge of any goddamn jokes.   
TG: please dont use the word jokester seriously ever again in my presence i will flay you egbert  
TG: im like this close to willing to bet that  
TG: girl  
TG: your cousin is dating  
TG: is partially behind this  
EB: you mean your sister.   
TG: wow no shit  
TG: okay but no im very serious about this problem  
EB: maybe you want to fucking tell me what it is instead of dicking around being infuriatingly vague? maybe?   
EB: but of course, who do i think i’m talking to? THE dave strider, incapable of any kind of normal conversation. what was i thinking?   
TG: fuck you john  
TG: alright fine look im going to send you a link to the actual product itself where i found it  
TG: dont let dear ol dad be hangin around back there okay  
TG: very important  
EB: oh no, not daddykins! can’t let his poor virgin eyes see the nastiness!   
EB: whatever, dave, just show it to me.   
TG: i was just trying to look out for you okay  
TG: http://www.babeland.com/tantus-realdoe/d/1342  
EB: oh my god  
TG: see i fuckin told you  
EB: he did not!  
TG: he did  
TG: it says its from him and rose both but we both know who pays the bills around here  
TG: including dildo bills  
TG: billdos  
EB: please no.   
TG: this thing is colored like a white devil  
EB: so are you!   
EB: wait, did you open it?   
TG: no i refuse  
TG: je refuse  
TG: i cannot in good conscience put an object inside my body that was given to me by my darling older brother  
EB: i don’t think you’re supposed to put it in... you? it’s got two ends...  
TG: jesus you think i dont know that  
TG: yeah two ends and one still goes the fuck inside me  
TG: hypothetically  
TG: like it goes inside the wearer okay  
TG: and you know what was next to the box  
EB: let me guess. a note.   
TG: no that was on top of the box keep up  
TG: it was  
TG: another box  
EB: say it isn’t so! is it another dildo?   
TG: shut the fuck up  
TG: no it’s a box for a  
TG: harness it says  
TG: like im a horse or something  
EB: you’re a horse’s ass, is what you are. hahaha god  
TG: theres a note from rose on top of this box that i cannot even begin to transcribe or i would have to set my laptop on fire  
TG: she isnt even here for me to corner that coward  
TG: everybody fucking bailed before i woke up so i would be stuck alone with these  
TG: artifacts  
EB: that seems kind of thoughtful, actually. like they wanted you to be able check them out in privacy, without being embarrassed?   
TG: how the fuck am i not supposed to be embarrassed  
TG: these are sex toys  
TG: i am an almost 18 year old dude  
TG: with a boyfriend that has recently expressed to me that he wants only the gentlest tender loving possible  
EB: yeah, i remember that conversation.   
TG: which will probably not involve fiddling with his butt until i can put a plastic dong up it  
EB: you’re so lucky i’m your best friend, dave.   
TG: i know  
TG: man remember like just a few months ago i was like  
TG: this dude does nothing for me  
TG: now im talking about whether or not he would let me pork him with fake meat  
EB: well, time changes everything! and you’re a teenager. plus i mean, that one photo he let you have, he seems kind of cute?   
EB: not that i can tell, being straight and all.   
TG: dont pull that no homo shit with me john i have literally zero patience for it  
TG: you know hes fucking adorable dont even play  
TG: i could fucking die from looking at him because hes like the epitome of everything cute  
TG: of course now im not allowed to like  
TG: well  
TG: never mind look all im saying is dudes cute  
TG: im gonna invite him over today  
TG: please fucking text me in like two hours telling me to hide the evidence of my creepy siblings  
EB: why don’t you just do it now?   
TG: because i dont have any room left under my bed like i would seriously have to think about where to put these horrifying items  
TG: and i am going back to sleep  
TG: its the first day of spring break here in the good ol nyc and you have school dont you  
EB: haha, yeah, fuck you very much.   
EB: fine. i will text you just to nag you to put away your giant fleshy boner and boner accessories.   
TG: accessory  
TG: single  
EB: anyway i need to get showered or i’ll never make it out of here in time. bye, dave! good luck with the pork.   
TG: i hate you so much  
TG: bye dude

You close Pesterchum, because talking to John is the only use you have for it, and put your laptop aside. You’re back in bed already, completely over being awake, but you grab your phone and text Karkat a quick invitation to come by in the early afternoon. True that you’d been looking forward to a spring break full of sex and the never-ending pursuit of an actual orgasm, which has yet to happen, but you’re dedicated to giving a shit about Karkat, and if he wants to be some kind of monk, you tell yourself, then it’s fine so long as he stays with you. Sex is not the defining factor of a relationship. You’re definitely old enough to know that. You’re almost 18, for chrissakes. (In much the same way that you’re almost 21, but whatever.) 

You’re bleary when loud knocking wakes you from sleep, and without your binder on you panic, throwing on the largest hoodie you have and rolling your shoulders forward to diminish the existence of your breasts as much as possible. You never fucking _asked_ to have these, these things that prevent you from just answering the door like a normal person. You double check in the mirror, do you look like Christina Hendricks? No? Good enough, and you pad off to the door to answer it. 

Of course it’s Karkat. He looks a little more put together than usual, like he tried to do something with his hair before giving up and letting it do its usual thing, and his T-shirt under his hoodie has a collar that doesn’t look nibbled on by time and a rough washing machine. Hell, his jeans look more fitted than his usual pairs, and you wonder when he got those. You think it looks nice. Real nice. 

“My brother went back to school yesterday,” he says as he follows you in. “Thank fuck. He’s such a fucking donkey.” 

“Yeah, you seemed like you two were locked in eternal battle last night, definitely,” you say. “So look, my brother went to work and my sister bailed early, so we’re alone—” Shit. Your sister. Rose and Bro’s so-called gifts. You run ahead. 

“Please don’t tell me after what I said last week the first thing you wanna do is jump in bed and hump me again,” Karkat says with a snort. “Dave, get the fuck back out here. I brought a whole hard drive of shit we can watch.” 

You scramble with the first box, figuring that one’s more incriminating, but when you try to toss it up onto the already-crowded closet shelf, it falls back down and hits you square on top of your head, corner-first, and you curse loudly. You’re picking it back up when Karkat walks in, and immediately zeroes in on the object in your hands like the intelligent asshole he is. “The hell is that?” He squints, and as you hurl it into the depths of your closet, too late to try and hide it in an organized way, he goes bright tomato red. “Dave, what was that?” 

“Oh, like you don’t know,” you huff, taking a few steps back to get the harness box and toss it in after the dildo. “Bro and Rose thought it would be really funny to leave that on my dresser and then bail before I could wake up and confront them about it, I guess.” 

“What are you gonna do with it?” he asks, squeezing his bookbag straps with white knuckles as he stares at your messy closet. 

“I don’t know? I don’t have any way to get rid of it, and I’m the only trans dude I know who isn’t some like queer activist on Tumblr who can either afford their own dick or shouldn’t be getting dicks from strangers on the internet.” You slam the closet door shut, or try to, anyway, the door bouncing off the mess inside. “Maybe I’ll nail it to the wall and use it as a coat hook just so they’re both fucking reminded how weird that was. And the harness can be... I dunno, maybe I’ll get a dog and attach a leash to that thing.” 

“Oh.” He finally takes his bookbag off, sitting on your bed in slow motion. 

“I mean, what did they expect me to do with that?” you say as you let your ass fall onto the space next to him, which is kind of like sitting. “I am not putting any fucking object that my _siblings_ picked out for me in _either_ of our bodies. For fuck’s sake.” And, whoops, now you feel weird even mentioning sex around Karkat. “I mean—”

“That’s too bad,” he says, with a high whine to that last word like he had to squeeze it out. “Seems like a waste of money. Of a perfectly good,” he swallows, “object.” 

“Oh. Dude. Dude, no,” you say with a nervous little chuckle. “Don’t fuck with me like that. We’re celibate now, remember?” 

“Who said we’re celibate?” he wants to know, glancing at you with wide eyes. “Did we have a board meeting about this? Did we take a vote? Was I passed out for that meeting? Because I don’t remember coming to that decision.” 

“You—we had a whole thing! A whole discussion!” you splutter. “Remember? When you said you wanted me to back off? I’ve been doing the whole not-grabbing-at-you all week!” 

“I didn’t say celibate!” he says, throwing his hands up. “I didn’t even say back the entire fuck off, I just—Jesus, you make me look rational, you know that?” 

“I’m just trying to do what you want!” Your hands go up, too, in your exasperation. “Are you trying to tell me you want me to strap that thing to my body so I can f—so I can _make love_ to you with it?” 

“I didn’t say that, either!” He says it a little too quickly, though, and you try not to be smirking when he looks at you again. 

“Alright, you know what, new topic. I was thinking like, what with it being spring break and all, and in light of us laying off all this doing and grabbing, we could go out on.” You drum your fingertips on the top of his hand, where it rests next to his leg. “A date? Like a real one, except maybe not with a tablecloth or actual fancy dinner, like maybe cheap Vietnamese?” 

“I like Vietnamese,” Karkat admits, flipping his hand over for you to put yours in it. “I don’t have any money with me except for Metrocard, though.” 

“Fear not, my delicate prince, I’ve got a twenty dollar bill and big muscles,” you say, raising your free arm to make a fist and flex. He snorts at you, but then he leans over and gives you this hesitant kiss just behind your ear, and for the next five minutes you’re not talking about what you will or won’t do because you’re kissing him back, and he kisses you more in return. You almost get him on top of you, just by virtue of the height he’s got on you, before his body brushes your breasts through your shirt and you’re jolted back to the reality where that’s nothing you’re ready for. 

You make him wait in the living room as you pop into your binder, pulling your boobs long and flattish beneath it. Granted Karkat probably doesn’t give a shit how you dress for a date—he showed up wearing the same busted sneakers and a pilling, faded black hoodie—but you do, and you plan to look slick as hell in your black slim fits and, yeah, this black button-down you’ve never worn before. You have to look at yourself from the same three angles about ten times before you’re satisfied you just look buff and not like you have giant tits stuffed into a compression garment. The right hat ensures your masculinity (you’re pretty sure) and then you’re stepping into your dunks to take your boyfriend out. 

Karkat complains that you’re showing him up on the way down to Chinatown, but he doesn’t seem to actually hold it against you. The restaurant you have in mind is tucked in a quieter part of the neighborhood, though not actually that far from the thoroughfare on Canal Street. Karkat says he’s been here before with Gamzee; not that you expected to surprise him with it. Anyone spending time in Chinatown knows Pho Nha Trang. 

Neither of you can remember whether you’re supposed to order from the green menu or the red menu until you find the cheaper prices. When you tell Karkat he can get appetizers if he wants, he bites his lip and waves his hand, so you order summer rolls with extra peanut sauce because, you tell him, _you_ want them, and he can have some if he wants. He burns the tip of his tongue when he forgets to take it easy with the tea, and you have to give him your water after he finishes his off and the sting isn’t quite gone. 

Somewhere between giving your order to the waiter with the unbelievably long braid and your rice noodles arriving at the same time, you realize you’re smiling just looking at him, and your heart is bursting with something a lot like love. 

“What?” he asks, putting down the bite of shrimp and noodles he was about to take. “I’m eating as much as you are.” 

“Ah, nothing, I’m just being a huge dweeb,” you say with a sigh. “You feeling up to dessert after this? There’s a bakery like, down the block.” 

“I know where the bakery is,” he says with a sniff that seems to run in the Vantas family. “I’ve been there with Gamzee, too—shit.” What little color exists in his face drains away, shoulders snapping up around his ears. “Shit, shit, shit—”

You look around just in time to spot Brandon coming through the front door, and staring with burning eyes over the divider right at you and Karkat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm starting my NEW job with NON-ABUSIVE employers this monday if nothing goes wrong, and my commute is even longer from my new place, at least an hour and a half on three trains, so i'm hoping that will allow me more internet-free time to write and really consider how to present these last two chapters to you. c: in the meantime, you know what to do! i love to hear all your thoughts, from the most introspective to the most "inane" (trust me, none of your comments are inane to me).


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sex and violence, not quite in that order. have i used this summary before

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **EDIT: i've decided that after everything this fic has been through, and everything it's put its readers through, it deserves an epilogue, so i've lengthened the total number of chapters to 19. you can breathe easy that whatever bad stuff may be on the horizon, everything will be resolved. i didn't take you guys on this ride just to make you sad, after all.**
> 
> i went to a six-hour nanowrimo write in at the most amazing place i've ever been called paragraph?? and wrote over 7000 words in those six hours, so you have that to thank for the quickness of this chapter's arrival
> 
> it's also the longest chapter to date, and also probably the most pornographic. both aspects worry me and i did ask someone to beta before deciding to just post it regardless, but hopefully you don't mind

Everything in you is screaming. Brandon strides past the hostess’s desk even as she calls after him, _is it just a table for one?_ , eyes fixed solely on you. Your heart kicks against your ribs, a panicked rabbit thumping for escape; he pushes his way through the narrow space between the dividers, and ignores Dave’s yelling to come around to the end of the table. 

“You got nothin’ better to do with your spring break than track us down just to fuck with Karkat?” Dave spits. Brandon leans in toward you. 

“You know, I was havin’ a real nice day,” Brandon says, voice low and just for you. “And then I spot your fat ass sitting in a chair it can’t even fit in, in this real nice spot that I like to come to with my family. I see you putting this,” he picks a shrimp out of your bowl, “in your fat fucking face! And worst of fucking all, I see you doing it at my favorite table! In my favorite fucking seat!” The shrimp bounces off your nose when he flicks it at you. “So much for my nice day!” 

“Y-you don’t—” you gasp, frozen in your seat. You’re so aware of Brandon’s enormous arms, the muscles flexing lazily beneath the freckled skin as he glares at you. You’re aware of his hands that could fucking strangle you, of his feet that could kick the chair out from under you. He probably doesn’t even weigh 200 pounds, but you’re nothing against him. 

“You don’t fucking own the seat!” Dave shouts from the other side of the table, finishing your sentence. “Why don’t you try leaving us the fuck alone? Go do whatever it is sad pieces of shit like you do without classes to fail.” He reaches for the back of Brandon’s hoodie. 

“ _Don’t_ touch me! You fucking faggot!” Brandon bellows, knocking Dave’s arm away. “This isn’t your goddamn business!” 

Dave shoots up out of his seat with lidless eyes and a furrowed brow, a good three inches shorter than Brandon. “You come interrupt my meal and fuck with Karkat, and you think it’s not my goddamn business?” he wants to know, pushing at Brandon’s shoulder. “You don’t want me to touch you? Huh? Huh?” He punctuates the last two words with more pushes, and Brandon turns toward him. The hostess at the front is shouting something, but you can barely comprehend anything but the fact that Dave is literally courting death, you fucking know it. 

And Brandon punches Dave, his knuckles meeting cheekbone so hard Dave’s knees buckle to throw his lower half forward before he collapses. Big burly Asian dudes are emerging from the kitchen now and heading for your table, the words _get out_ and _you have to leave_ echoing from all around you. Brandon starts to face you again when suddenly he seems to trip, and as he falls his chin glances off the glass top of the table. When you look down, you see it was Dave who swiped a leg under Brandon’s feet, breathing heavy as he sits up and touches his face gingerly. 

The hostess—probably an owner, if you’re honest about the way you’ve seen her handle the restaurant over the years—approaches, and stands at a safe distance, flanked by her delivery men and cooks. “You need to get out right now,” she says, her words clear and curt despite her accent, “or I call the police.” 

Dave is the first one up, Brandon still desperately trying to recover from the way his teeth must have clattered against each other with that bump. “On who? On him?” he says. “He came in here to fuck—to mess with us!” 

“All of you,” she says, pointing with an angry finger at the three of you. “Out! Get out! Or I call the police!” 

“But I didn’t pay for the—” Dave tries, even as you get out of your seat, looking for the fastest way out where you won’t have to squeeze past anything. 

“You deaf? Out!” she says again, pointing this time at the door. 

“Fine, alright. Okay. Fine. I’m _sorry_ we have a bully problem,” Dave says with a little sneer as he collects his jacket from the empty chair next to him, keeping one hand up the whole time. “Sorry.” 

You scurry out first, hands jammed in your hoodie pockets and head down, mumbling an apology to a nearby waiter staring at you as you go out the door. Dave is right behind you, coming out onto the sidewalk with a frown. “That was fucked up,” he says, and you just shrug, looking to put as much distance between you and Brandon as possible, no matter how out of it he might be. “I heard them asking Brandon if he needed someone to call 911 when we left! He was the one who came to fuck with _us_ and they’re giving a shit about _him?_ ” 

“He took a pretty hard knock,” you say quietly, making a beeline for Court Street. 

“So did I!” Dave glances up at the street signs. “Where you going? What’s over there?” 

“Nothing? I don’t know. I just want to go where he won’t look for me,” you say, striding across the street. 

“So, what, you knew that was a place he liked to go, or something?” 

“No! I don’t know! Leave me alone!” you snap, pulling your hood forward to stride across the street. “Stop fucking interrogating me!” 

“Alright! Jesus, I’m sorry. I’m just trying to figure out like, how this even happened. Don’t white people go to Aruba when they’ve got time off?” He jogs to catch up to you as you reach the curb. “I just didn’t expect like, any of that.” 

You sigh. “Yeah, I know. I’m sorry for being an asshole about it.” 

“Nah. I mean, it’s not like you expected it either, and at least nothing happened to you. Other than,” he licks his thumb and reaches up to wipe the tip of your nose, “a little hit on your dignity.” He shows you the tiny piece of rice noodle that was sitting on your nose this whole time after Brandon threw shrimp at you, smiling up at you, and you find it hard not to give him a smile in return. 

“What about you, though? I mean, he got you pretty good. Right in the face and everything.” You pull over next to a produce display, and even as Dave waves a dismissive hand, you take him by the chin and brush fingers over where Brandon punched him. The way he flinches sort of ruins his macho posturing. “Uh huh. Yeah, see? We should forget about going out today and just go back to one of our places to put some ice on this. Watch something shitty. So, something you like.” 

“Fuck you, dude,” Dave says, but you look around, see nobody but some guy in a suit across the street too caught up in whatever’s happening on his phone to give a shit about you, and you lean down to kiss Dave’s developing bruise. “Gay,” Dave deadpans, but as you come away he tugs you back down, giving you a kiss in return. “Really gay,” he confirms. “Sorry, but that’s the prognosis.” 

“Really gay? Oh no,” you say with fingers pressed delicately to your collarbone. “Whatever will I do? Is there a treatment for this horrible disease of gay, doctor?” 

“I’m afraid the only solution is daily treatments of makeouts,” he replies with a gruff voice, holding up an invisible clipboard and pen. “If that doesn’t help, then I’m prescribing you ten milligrams of shameless groping and heavy petting, to take as necessary.” He signs the imaginary prescription with a flourish and hands it to you. “This may be your only hope, Mister Vantas.” 

“Heavy petting?” you say with an incredulous laugh. “What are you, sixty? Who the fuck says heavy _petting?_ ” 

“Doctor Strider does, because Doctor Strider is hip and cool. Doctor Strider is with it,” he says with a pound to his chest, followed by a disorganized imitation of the Macarena. “Don’t diss Doctor Strider, loveologist, Ph.D.” 

“You’re full of so much shit,” you say, laughing some more. “What an asshole.” 

“Hey!” a voice calls out, and both your heads whip around to spot Brandon sprinting across the intersection, despite the honking car that pulls short to avoid smashing into him. “Hey! You pieces of shit!” 

“Are you kidding me right now?” Dave says, clapping a hand to his face even as you take off. You know Brandon will catch up to you because you’re slow, and out of shape, and too aware of the way your body moves to really pick up much speed, but right now the most important thing is to get away. Dave groans, and turns to follow you. 

“You motherfuckers are gonna pay!” Brandon shouts from behind you, gaining by the second. 

“This isn’t a—” Dave pauses as he runs, looking oddly thoughtful for someone trying to get away from a beatdown. “Shit. Alright. This isn’t an Al Pacino movie, Brandon!” he shouts back at the bully. “Nobody talks like that in real life!” 

“Al Pacino?!” you pant as you round the corner. 

“Look, I’m running for my life here, alright? I don’t have time to think of a more relevant action star that might be in movies where expendable goons yell shit like ‘you motherfuckers are gonna pay’! Give me some credit, here!” 

“I just think,” you huff, “you could do better! Al Pacino hasn’t been relevant in years! Why not Shia LaBeouf?” 

“Shia LaBeouf?!” Dave shrieks. “On what planet is Shia LaBeouf an action star—”

Brandon grabs you by the hood, pulling tight around your throat before your momentum brings you crashing down to the sidewalk. “Are you having a _conversation?_ ” he asks, fist clenched unrelentingly around your hood. “Without me? Come on, guys, that’s not even a little bit polite.” 

“Fuck you,” you wheeze, clutching at where the neckline of your hoodie is strangling you. 

“That’s not very creative of you,” Brandon tsks. “But look, let me be up front. I don’t like that you got me kicked out of one of my favorite spots! That’s some shit, Vantas. Oh, what—” Dave rams the shoulder of the arm holding you, and Brandon releases you with an angry grunt, leaving you free to sit up and get your breath back. “Get the fuck off me!” 

“I wouldn’t _have_ to be up in your shit if you’d just leave us alone!” Dave retorts, falling back into a ready stance. 

“Well I wouldn’t have to keep bugging you if you weren’t such obnoxious faggots!” Brandon spits back. Dave snarls wordlessly, and as he lunges, a dark blur slams into Brandon from the side. He hits the wall, dangerously close to upsetting the produce display, and someone from inside the grocery store comes to stand in the doorway and yell _Go away!_

The blur is Gamzee, tall dark and deadly. Brandon coughs as he gathers himself at the bottom of the wall, glaring up at his new assailant. “The fuck are you doing here?!” he demands between coughs. 

“Well look, Karkat asked probably the same fuckin’ thing, but I got doubts you actually gave a decent answer, so let’s not play that shit, alright?” Gamzee says, squatting down by Brandon. Dave makes his way to you, helping to pull you up. “I got a real problem with you, Reid.” 

“I told you I’m not fucking afraid of you!” Brandon yells, striking out with one foot. Gamzee jumps up to dodge it, and he shakes his head. 

“It ain’t a matter of you bein’ afraid or not, Brandon, like whether you got survival instincts or not is not my problem.” He bends to grab Brandon by the collar of his shirt that peeks from his half-zipped hoodie, and hoists him up. “It’s the fact you got beef with my boy Karkat for literally no goddamn reason other’n you think he looks funny. I ain’t appreciate that fact much, friend.” Brandon’s thick fingers scrabble at Gamzee’s spindly ones, but there is absolutely no stopping Gamzee, and the punch he delivers to his captive whips Brandon’s head around so hard it ricochets off the wall behind him. You and Dave both take a step back. The grocery employee is shouting now, waving her arms like _Please go away! Fight somewhere else!_

“I’m sorry, Miss,” Gamzee says with a nod of his head. “I’ll get this cut this short, promise.” He spins Brandon around like a fucking top, pinning his arms up behind him until Brandon wails. “You gonna leave Karkat alone?” he hisses, hitching his arms up to get another cry out of him. He doesn’t answer with words. “I asked you a question, motherfucker, you deaf? I asked you if you were gonna leave my best fucking friend alone!” 

“Fuck you,” Brandon sobs, “you’re not your brother, you’re just some dropout punk—”

“You fuckin’ stupid too?!” Gamzee booms, and he yanks up on the pretzel knot he’s got Brandon’s arms in. Brandon screams. “You forget who I am? You don’t fuckin’ remember who my pops is? Ain’t none of us got a drop of mercy in us for punkasses like you!” Real tears stream down Brandon’s face, and you look at Gamzee’s with wide eyes. You’ve never seen your friend like this, face twisted with rage, but with this sadistic kind of joy, too, like he’s been waiting for this chance. “Kurloz killed your bitchass cousin because he’s just fucking like you! Ain’t know when to _shut up_ and take it!” Gamzee’s hands slide to Brandon’s elbows, sliding up to his wrists as he lets Brandon fall forward, and one ratty Converse with its talking sole gets put on Brandon’s back, grinding down as Gamzee snaps both arms too far up with twin crunches that make you retch. The grocery store employee is on her phone, fear painted all over her features, and you can hear her say words like _police_ and _attack_ and _hurry_. 

Gamzee lets Brandon’s arms fall lifelessly with a disgusted _tch_ , and catches sight of your face. He sighs, hunching and pushing a hand through his hair. “Don’t look at me like that, Karkat. I can’t stand to see you lookin’ at me like that, all fear in your eyes like you got. You know who I am.” 

“I didn’t—” You swallow around the thick lump of fear clogging your throat. “I mean, thank you, Gamzee...” 

“Ain’t nothin’ to be thankin’ me for. Just takin’ out the fuckin’ trash. I told you I’d always look out for you, Karkat. When we first fuckin’ met.” He jabs a finger into your shoulder, and when you flinch you regret it because you’ve seen Gamzee sad, but you’ve never seen him like this. “Lemme get outta your face. I bet you were havin’ a nice time before,” he gestures at Brandon, who is being attended to by the employee who seems to be staying on the phone with the police, or 911 responders, or whoever it is she called, “all this.” 

“You should get out of here,” you whisper with a dry mouth. “Before the cops come.” 

“Cops ain’t know how to find me,” Gamzee snickers. “Alright.” He claps you on the shoulder, before pulling you in for a hug. “Go on home or something, watch somethin’ nice or play somethin’ sweet for me, alright?” 

“Yeah,” you agree. “Yeah, sure.” 

“Cool.” And just like that, he takes off, the grocery store employee immediately telling her phone that the “attacker” is on the move. You know Gamzee will know how to evade the cops before they even get here. You make awkward eye contact with her, before Dave’s hand slips into yours and tugs you away from the crime scene. 

“What the _fuck_ just happened?!” Dave clutches at the shorn sides of his head as you flow east along Canal with the crowd. “He just—the fuck just happened?” 

“I texted Gamzee and asked him to kind of, you know, hang around the neighborhood today, just in case. While you were changing,” you say, as casually as you can manage. “I’ve had too many bad run-ins with Brandon outside of school whenever I come into Manhattan. I just wanted that extra measure of security.” 

“Sec—security?!” Dave screeches. “His dad is a fucking crime lord! I don’t even know how I didn’t make that connection before, it’s not like Makara is a real common last name! Jesus!” 

“Alleged crime lord,” you say, as much as you know that’s utter bullshit. Boss Makara is responsible for a hell of a lot, no matter how often the District Attorney’s office keeps failing to prove it, not the least of which was a string of deaths in the early 2000’s. Once you found out about Kurloz, it didn’t you long to make the rest of the connections. But Gamzee was—is—still your friend. 

“Bullshit,” Dave grumbles. “And you know what the cherry on top is? On top of the whole—” he makes a tight circle with his spread fingers, “—shit cake? Brandon looks like the fucking victim here. All they saw was some brown dude who all but announced that he’s part of a known crime family like, break this precious white boy’s arms or something, and take off, while we just sat back and watched. So no matter what, it doesn’t fucking _matter_ that he’s the one who started everything today.” 

“Like you’re even surprised,” you say. “Everything’s always gonna work out for him, and everybody like him.” 

“Yeah, I know.” Dave sighs, bumping against your arm gently. “You think there’s any rescuing today?” 

“Well, I’d say we could kick around Elizabeth Center, but to be honest, we should probably get out of the neighborhood.” You thumb over your shoulder. “Considering we’re probably technically witnesses to a crime, at this point.” 

“You’re taking this very well,” Dave remarks, even as he nods and heads for the nearest station. “You wanna go to Chelsea, hold hands and scare all the buff white gays?” 

“I don’t really have the fare for that,” you say, even as you chuckle at the idea. 

“Ah, but my dear Vantas,” Dave says with a click of his tongue, producing the twenty he failed to spend at Pho Nha Trang, “I’m fucking loaded today, in teenage terms. Let’s get _on_ that shitty train.” 

In the end you don’t scare anyone, because people in Chelsea are too wrapped up in their own issues to care about a tall fatty holding hands with a short curvy dude, or the coloration of either one. If anything, you catch more glances at your pilling hoodie; there’s two fashion schools and the entire garment district not far from where you walk, and you might have done better with a cardigan here. Not that you entirely give a shit about what fashion students think of you. 

You go back to your place, blessedly free of your brother, and your dad is getting back late. Dave marvels at the fact that the only console you own is an N64, and you take five minutes to complain about the fact that you brought a fucking _hard drive_ of movies and cartoons with you only to end up doing nothing with it but hooking it back up to your computer. Your selection of channels on the actual TV is piss poor compared to what Dave’s got, so you end up picking something out to watch on your computer, piling your pillows against the wall so you can sit on your twin bed something like a couch. 

He leans against you right away, and as the opening theme of the second episode of Static Shock finishes, he kisses your neck, kind of lazy and absentminded. “Ah, shit, sorry—” he whispers against your skin, making you shiver. 

“Sorry for what?” you ask, shifting to turn your body toward his. 

“I honestly don’t know what’s okay anymore and what’s off limits, is what,” he says with a brief twitch of a frown. “I just don’t want you to be like, uncomfortable with me, the way you were before.” 

“I didn’t say never touch me again,” you say with an exasperated slump of your shoulders. “I told you a million times already, I’m fucking _happy_ you want to touch me, period. I just don’t want it to be like, the only thing we do.” 

“So, what,” Dave says as he gets up on his knees to face you, utterly ignoring Virgil’s plight onscreen, “I could kiss you right now, and that would be okay? We did enough non-sex things today? Like go out for half a meal? Like watch a crime in progress?” 

“Yeah, you could do that,” you say as Dave knee-walks the very short distance between you, bumping up against the shin of the leg folded in front of you, and you lean back to move it out of his way. He crawls between your legs, and your heart jumps into your throat in yet another escape attempt. “I think we’ve definitely cleared a decent list of non-sex things to put a non-non-sex thing on our itinerary.” 

“Good,” Dave says, and he braces himself to either side of your hips as he leans in to kiss you. You break off for a hurried few seconds to gather the pillows and put them back where they belong, giving you something to recline against, because otherwise Dave can’t really reach your face with his when he’s between your legs. Which is where you like him, much better than when he straddles you. 

You kiss through the first half of the episode, Dave pressed against you with his hips undulating against your crotch like he wants to fuck you. Just the thought has you hard, though the way Dave grinds on you, the way his tongue tangles with yours, these things aren’t _not_ helping. The problem is when he gets tired of just kissing, of just dry-humping, and his hands start to wander. To his credit he’s not _grabbing_ anymore, instead trailing fingers lightly over rolls of fat, but it’s still enough to distract you from your own arousal, and you grab him by the wrists, holding them up at arm’s length. 

“What? What _now?_ ” Dave groans. “I’m trying, okay? I’m not fucking grabbing at you, I’m not being aggressive, I’m being as gentle as fucking, I don’t know, morning dew on a daisy! What the fuck is the problem?” 

“No, yeah, you’re not grabbing,” you say, “but I swear to God I’ve been making it clear this whole time I don’t want hands on like, any part of this.” You gesture to include your whole torso. 

“You just pointed to like, everything that isn’t your dick. Or your limbs.” Dave sits back, hands planted on his hips. “I don’t get it.” 

“How the fuck would you like it if I started trying to grab up on your—those?” you say, pointing at his chest. 

“Uh, I’d say good luck, because these puppies are strapped down pretty tight,” he replies with a snort. “I don’t think you can even find my nipples. I’m not sure _I_ can find my nipples.” 

“Not the point!” you snap. “I just—Christ, Dave! Does it escape your fucking notice I’m fat as hell? I’m—I’m literally morbidly obese, like if I gave a shit about fat solidarity,” you say with a wiggle of your fingers around those last two words, “I could call myself deathfat if I wanted to, and nobody could give me shit for it. I’m huge. I’m disgusting. I’m—”

“—Cute as hell,” Dave interrupts. “And in fact, hot as fuck when you’re turned on. Sometimes not even then, like you’re just sitting next to me and I’m like, this dude is hot as hell.” 

“Would you stop it?” You sit up, rubbing one temple as you scoot your ass back. “I’m just saying, I don’t want you touching the fat parts of me.” 

Dave sits in uncomfortable silence as he looks your body over. “But—hmm.” 

“Hmm what?” you want to know, crossing your arms. 

“Just, alright. So you’re fuh... So you’re _fat_ ,” he says, slowly like it’s an imaginary word. “I mean, so what? I’m... Well, you’ve fucking seen what’s going on with me. You don’t like me or my body any less, do you?” 

“No!” 

“So vice versa applies!” he says, jabbing his index finger into the palm of his other hand. “Whatever body is ever attached to you, I’m into it! I like _you_ , not whatever you or someone else thinks you’re supposed to look like. And I mean,” he continues with a nervous chuckle, “sometimes I just like to touch you to remind myself that you’re, you know. Real. And actually want to be with me.” 

“Jesus.” You massage both sides of your head now, dragging your hands down your face. “Make me feel like the asshole, why don’t you.” 

“I’m not trying to—”

“No, I mean—whatever, it doesn’t even matter.” You shake your head. “I guess... I guess you can touch. _Lightly_ ,” you add with a stern look. “And over the clothes.” 

“Shit yeah!” Dave rubs his hands together as you move to recline again, and he literally dives back in. His hands feel like they’re everywhere, rubbing big concentric circles over your belly and sides as he kisses you. Your erection that flagged while you had to explain to Dave how much you hate your body comes back full force when Dave mimes thrusting into you again, hips pushing against the backs of your thighs. He slides his hands between your T-shirt and your hoodie that you kept on, and pushes it up above your chest as his fingers find your nipples, thumbs caressing them through the cotton. You shudder, forcing down the instinct that tells you Dave is about to realize how gross you are and how much better he could do, especially when he grabs your fat chest in handfuls like breasts, even for only a second. 

He reaches between you, asks in breathy whispers if you’re okay with taking your dick out, and he even waits for your answer, asks if you’re sure when you nod yes. “Yes, asshole,” you hiss, and he tells you with a grin you can feel that he had to check. His hand makes quick work of your fly, burrows into your underwear to wrap around your cock. You have the idea that you should reciprocate somehow, position things so you can touch his not-dick, as he tends to call it, but Dave pushes the leg not up against the wall down until it touches the mattress, his tugs on your dick timed with his empty thrusts, and you forget about all that to wrap your arms around his shoulders and try not to moan too loudly. 

“I wish,” Dave whispers into your ear as his thumb rubs against your frenulum, “fucking desperately wish, I had a cock, so I could fuck you with it.” And you bite your lip around the whine bubbling up out of you, because your orgasm is surging through you, cum flowing over Dave’s hand and onto your shirt. 

Because you’re a shameful piece of shit, you still can’t bring yourself to take off your shirt in front of Dave, and once you remember how to use your legs again, you slide off the bed to rummage through your dresser and pick out a clean one to put on in the bathroom. 

“You liked that, huh?” Dave says as you come back into your room. “Too bad I could probably never get over the fact that my brother bought that Feeldoe for me.” 

“That what? You mean the dildo?” You throw your soiled shirt into your hamper. “Yeah, too bad.” Post-orgasm, it’s a little harder to get worked up over it. Like, sure, it definitely sprang to mind right before you came, and you were kind of thinking about it on the train down to Chinatown, and on the 7 coming out here, like what it might be like to spread your legs for Dave as he fucks you relentlessly, but it’s nothing but dumbass wishful thinking. Out of character, too, you tell yourself; you made Dave understand that you wanted to be treated delicately, and you don’t want to muddle that message. You totally understand Dave’s reasons for not wanting to put it on. It came from his siblings, after all, or sibling singular if you count only who paid for it, and that makes it weird enough. 

“I’m glad we’re not celibate anymore, though,” he says as he pats the bed next to him. He’s set the pillows back up to make it couch-ish. “Rewind the episode, we missed a whole bunch having sex.” 

“We were never—ugh! Forget it.” You drag back to basically the beginning of the episode, and climb back onto the bed next to Dave. “Did you, uh...” You gesture at his crotch with a grimace. “You know?” 

“What? Oh, yeah, I’m good,” he says with a flap of his hand and a sudden intensity for watching the screen that gives you pause. “Don’t worry about it.” 

“What do you mean, don’t worry about it? Does that mean you didn’t?” You don’t mean to press him like this, but somehow Dave’s obvious lies come back to you being a disgusting, sexually greedy monster, and you regret every orgasm you’ve ever had. 

“Watch the show.” He points at the screen. 

“Dave!” 

“What! What the fuck do you want me to say?” The words burst out of him, startling you enough to jump back. “Like, oh, Karkat,” he says with this high-pitched pornographic voice, “finger-fuck me and twiddle my clit until I come!” 

“No! Stop—stop that!” You shake your head. “I just—you don’t even want to try?” 

“I tried! I tried over and over again when I kept rubbing my junk up on your dick, and what happened? You freaked out and said you didn’t wanna do that anymore. So no, I don’t—”

“That’s _not_ what I said!” you shout. “How many times are we going to go over this? Just—look! The point isn’t that I don’t like sex, I just don’t like feeling like it’s the only reason we even see each other! If you’re not—you know—then I want to help you with that!” 

“I don’t wanna talk about this right now,” Dave says, holding a hand up between you. “Can we just say for now I’m very happy jacking you off, and now I wanna be very happy watching oldish cartoons with you?” 

“Fine.” You lean back against the pillows, and Dave moves to pillow his head on your chest, one hand resting against your belly. You take a deep breath—it’s okay for it to be there. You put your own hand over it, and watch the show in earnest. 

The next day Dave comes over again, this time straight over without any ventures into the outside world, and you cuddle up again to continue watching the series. Dave has a lot to say about the writing of Static Shock, especially about the jokes; he says a bunch of these are so cheesy his best friend on the West coast would consider cracking them. He gets more adventurous in how much of your body he touches as you watch, incredibly casual as he slings an arm over you, and you hold out pretty well until his fingers dig in under the bottom curve of your stomach and you swat his hand away. In the middle of a more tedious villain du jour episode, he rubs your crotch lazily until you’re groaning from how hard he’s gotten you inside your sweatpants, and you have to rewind again after he sucks your cock. You almost consider, in your hazy pre-orgasmic state, suggesting that he swing his hips your way to try and sixty-nine, but afterward you’re glad you didn’t, because you don’t have anything even approaching that sexual skill level. He firmly shuts down all talk of trying to get him off. 

Wednesday morning, you wake up to a text from Dave telling you that his apartment is clear, and you should come over asap, because he wants a break from Static Shock, and he’s got something he thinks you both might like. 

It takes you fifteen minutes to shower and get dressed, and you bust out the door like the place is on fire. 

“Okay, so,” Dave is saying as he lets you in, “for one thing, as much as I love like, quality programming meant to fill the gap in racially diverse characters at the turn of this century, I need my trash TV, and I can’t be missing my Wife Swap reruns again because Rose said she’d steal my kidneys in the night if I ever DVR any more reality shows.” 

“You’re lucky you have so many other things going for you to make up for your shitty taste in shows,” you say as he locks the door behind you. 

“Well, yeah, like a _ton_ of things, true,” he says. “Second item of business, though. Check this out.” And he holds up this square piece of foil with what looks like a big ring inside it. It’s—oh. _Oh._

“So look, I was thinking, like, I really appreciate your clueless desire to get me off, so maybe today we can try something new,” he says, waving the wrapped condom. “I’ve got like, five, just in case.” 

“Five?” you squeak. 

“Uh, yeah, if one breaks we have a backup. Because I am _not_ letting you get me pregnant, Mister Vantas.” 

“Oh my god.” You cover your reddening face with both hands. “Oh my _god_.” 

“I might be minus one kidney already, though, because I snuck in some recordings yesterday morning before I went to your place, so we have some episodes ready until Wife Swap starts airing in the afternoon,” he says as he makes his way to the couch. “I’m thinking we try this,” he says with another shake of the condom, “first, so our heads are clear to make as many clever remarks as possible, because that’s what we do. What do you think?” 

“Ah, sounds, sounds reasonable,” you say, carefully laying your bookbag aside and bracing against the wall to take your shoes off. “Yeah.” 

When you enter Dave’s room he’s already got his pants off, and when you close the door after yourself, he gives you this hesitant look before stripping off his shirt, too. His binder is black and reaches down to his natural waist, from where soft hips curve out into a plump ass clad in boxer briefs. “I’ve heard, uh,” he says as you sit down on the bed, unsure of what to take off after your hoodie and socks, “that for first time penetration, it’s good for the girl, or, you know, in this case _me_ , who is anything but, to be on top, so I can control how much.” He swallows; you haven’t seen him this nervous about sex since he revealed his secret to you. “How much goes in.” 

“I guess I should take off my pants,” you say, which is about the stupidest thing you could say, you realize immediately after the fact. Well, you could have called him a girl, but you’d like to believe you’re above even _that_ level of stupidity. 

“And underwear, don’t forget,” Dave says with this unnatural high-pitched giggle that makes him clap his hand over his mouth. “Jesus, what the fuck was that?” 

You shimmy out of your pants and underwear at the same time, quickly so you don’t think too hard about it, and fold the waistband over itself to hide your briefs before you kick it aside. You don’t feel like contemplating the vast difference in size between your tighty-whiteys and his much sexier underwear. This leaves you standing in nothing but your T-shirt, which yet again fails to cover the entirety of your stomach, and as you tug it down with both hands you become hyper-aware of the breeze against your naked ass, against your half-hard dick. This is possibly the most awkward sex anyone has ever had in the history of the humanity, you’re sure of it. Maybe in the world, if you consider the possibility of dinosaurs having awkward sex. 

“You’re not gonna take off your shirt?” Dave says, as if this surprises him. 

“Obviously not,” you say as you sit back down on your bed. At least you can be confident in being clean; to be honest, you sort of expected that Dave finally gave in to the allure of the Feeldoe, and of putting it in you, and in the shower you’d made extra sure everything _in back_ was basically sparkling. 

“I took mine off,” he says as he stands to take his underwear off, too. It’s still a little jarring, with how well Dave passes out on the street, to see that thatch of white curls with nothing coming out of it, but your dick still perks at the sight of it; it knows this is Dave. Your boyfriend. 

“Yeah, but you have your binder on,” you point out. He pushes against your shoulders and you take the hint, laying back against the pillows of the bed. “That’s almost like a shirt.” 

“It’s more like a bra, at least with this one.” Dave climbs into the space between your legs, condom pressed between two fingers on his left hand, which braces against your thigh as he strokes your cock. It doesn’t take long to bring it to full attention, and he tears the wrapper open with his teeth. You almost consider mentioning that you read on the internet you’re not supposed to do that, but you can already hear him in your head saying Dominicans open everything with their teeth. He rolls it onto your prick like he’s almost sure what he’s doing, and when he asks if that feels right you just shrug. So far, not the sexiest sex. You’re trying not to wonder again about dinosaurs’ sex lives. 

He throws his legs over yours to straddle your hips, and he reaches to grab your dick and position it. You can feel the heat of him as the tip of it presses against what must be the opening, but it’s almost completely unyielding, and you wonder if he doesn’t know his own genitalia from jump. He grimaces as he shifts his hips; same result. He’s cursing under his breath, and you put a hand on the one bracing against your sternum. 

“What?” he bites, before shaking his head and exhaling. “Shit, sorry. I just—I can’t—” Frustration fills his voice until it overflows. “I can’t! It won’t _go!_ ” 

You don’t even know where your bounds are, so trying not to overstep them is like trying to walk to the edge of a cliff blindfolded. “Well I mean, the condom doesn’t actually come with a lot of lube on it. That’s probably the issue.” 

“I have a _cunt!_ I’m supposed to be like, a walking lube factory!” he snarls, before slumping forward onto your body. “I don’t wanna spend money on something I’m supposed to produce naturally! Ugh! Ugh, ugh, ugh!” 

“It strikes me this is kind of like yelling at a dick for not just being automatically hard,” you say as you prop yourself up on your elbows. “Maybe...?” Dave looks up at you just in time to see you pantomiming fingering him. 

“I’m just going to stop existing,” he groans, turning his face back into your stomach. “Fuck all this. I won’t even die, I’ll just totally vanish from the plane of existence, and also everyone’s memories, and I’ll become like, some kind of nature spirit or some shit, who never has to worry about having a _dry vagina._ ” 

“This was your idea, not mine. If you wanna stop, we can go watch TV, although if you’re going to make me watch fucking Wife Swap after I gave you hours of lovely, top-notch cartoons,” and this is where Dave looks up again to roll his eyes at you, “then I’m probably going to have to borrow a beer from your brother.” 

“Well, since he’s always aware of how many beers he’s got, that’s probably a bad idea,” he says with a sigh. “Alright.” He rolls off you, leaving the condom where it is to lie next to you on this suddenly much narrower bed. He throws a leg over your hips, and gestures toward his crotch. “Tada. Finger away, maestro.” 

“Okay, so for the record, I still don’t know what I’m doing, at all, and I give no guarantees as to the quality of the service I’m about to provide,” you say, turning gingerly onto your side. All the fat from your sides flows into your belly, probably taking up even more space than when you were on your back, and you sort of roll part of your stomach under you. 

“Yeah, well, I never sucked a dick before I met you, and you seem pretty happy with my skills, so why don’t you just fucking roll with it?” He repositions his legs now that you’re settled, the same leg hooked over your hips. “Show me what you’ve got.” 

He sucks in his breath with the first touch. You don’t know how the nerves down here are set up, you don’t know where it’s pointless to touch, but the shaky breath he lets out when you circle his clit makes you decide to stick to where you are. You don’t even realize what you’ve done until after you’ve put that finger in your mouth to make it slick with spit, the better to rub with, and Dave looks at you with hooded eyes that still manage to be surprised. A high flush starts in his cheeks, moves into the rest of his face and the top of his chest that isn’t obscured by his binder. 

After five minutes of his toes curling, of him biting his lip, of him clutching at your arm whenever you manage to hit a particularly good note, he pushes your hand aside to roll onto his knees. “Alright,” he pants, “alright. That’s... I think that’s enough.” 

“It was only a few minutes,” you say, but when you look at your finger you think he might be right. He mounts your lap again, and though your boner softened some when you were getting him ready, it takes only a few seconds to get it back up to task. He holds it against him, and this time you both cry out when the head sinks in. He’s so hot inside it feels almost like burning, and you can feel his every breath, every beat of his heart. But you cried out in pleasure; when you look at his face there are literal tears clinging to his eyelashes as he curses himself out again. 

“Stop, stop, stop,” you say, sitting up to pull him away from your dick. “Dave.” 

“No, I’m _gonna_ get it!” he insists, but his fist pounding your shoulder is weak. “I can’t have a body that’s useless at _any_ kind of sex!” 

“It’s not useless,” you say, wrapping your arms around him as you rock him. You don’t even know what that means, but whatever Dave spits out against his body, you’ll be there to counter it. “We don’t have to do that, either, it doesn’t matter.” 

“I just want to get off!” he yells into your neck, muffled by it. “I can’t even get _that_ right, I fuck up everything! I can’t even get fucked the way I’m ‘supposed’ to!” 

You don’t know what to say. You just hold him, and shush him, and rock him, and shush him some more, and he never does any full blown crying but you can still feel the odd hiccup here and there. He finally gives up, slumping against you. 

He’s still quiet ten minutes later when he finally pushes your arms away to sit on the bed by himself, and he’s quiet when he pulls the wasted condom off your completely flaccid penis. You desperately want pants on, you want _some_ kind of covering over your lower half, but Dave is moving so slowly it feels like you’d upset him somehow just by grabbing your pants. He gets up and just sort of stands there, looking down at himself. 

Then he goes to the closet, and practically tears the door off its hinges when he flings it open. “You want me to fuck you, right?” he says as he grabs the door frame to lean in and rummage through the mess. 

“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” you say automatically, and Dave pops back out with that one long box in hand and a hard look on his face. 

“That is _not_ what I asked. I said, you want me to fuck you, right?” He puts the box on his dresser and goes back in for the other one. 

“Not if it’s going to be weird, since your brother got it for you,” you say, glancing at your pants. Your stalwart friends. You’re so sorry, pants, you’ll never take pants for granted again. “We don’t have to—”

“I know! I know we don’t have to, but I want to, so it’s up to _you_ whether want it.” He stacks the second box on top of the first. “And as for the Bro thing, I just...” He shakes his head. “I don’t care anymore, I have so few fucks left to give I’m about to go bankrupt. I need to be able to do _something_.” 

You don’t have any outs left. There’s no way to pin your desire for this on anyone but yourself, and you’re pretty sure Dave knows it. You swallow hard. 

“Yeah. I want that,” you say with a nod. 

The quiet of the mood is killed once you start opening boxes, though. Dave opens the harness up first and accidentally kicks you in the face in his efforts to get into it and get everything adjusted to his size; he apologizes profusely and kisses the booboo better, but he’s laughing about it. Then the dildo gets unboxed, and you’re both laughing because it’s so much _heavier_ than expected, and when you hold it by the bulb the dick part sort of flops pathetically because the connecting plastic is so narrow. Then Dave has to get back out of the harness to get the dildo into it, because he didn’t think ahead. 

He’s more hesitant about pulling it back on; the bulb doesn’t go as deep as a dick might, but it’s still going _inside_ , and he braces himself with an arm around your shoulders, face pressed against yours. He bites his lip and angles his hips back, and you can’t see what he’s doing but he goes slack-jawed for a moment, and then he’s pulling away, cracking his neck as he pulls the harness the rest of the way up. 

“That was way less drama than I was expecting,” you say dryly, pushing the boxes and assorted garbage to the floor. “You can get a weird round thing in, but not something that’s—” The murderous look Dave shoots you is enough to shut you up. “Well, hey, what fortuitous news! You got the thing in. And it looks great. What a great,” you gesture to the plastic dong, “white man’s dick.” 

“Excuse you.” Dave waddles over, his new dick wobbling with each step, and he swivels his hips to slap your thigh with it. “This is my dick. Do I look like the white man to you? I am a black man with a black man’s dick, which happens to be made out of some hefty-ass plastic.” He whacks your thigh again. “You got that?” 

“Yeah, alright. That is a lovely white man’s dick _transplant_ you got there, definitely worth the surgery.” Dave clicks his tongue at you and shoves you back, and for a moment you just laugh as you lay back, knees spread. Until he puts his hands on those knees, new cock heavy between his legs and so close to your ass you can almost feel it, and the laughter dies in your throat. 

“I don’t, uh.” Dave drums fingers on your kneecaps. “I don’t actually really know what to do. All fanfiction says happens is I’m supposed to stick like, three fingers in you, and then spit on my hand, and that’s it.” 

“Don’t you fucking _dare_ , Dave Asshole Strider!” you say, trying to sit up instantly, but Dave just pushes you back down with a laugh. 

“Chill. I’m kidding. I’m kidding, dunkass.” He lays his body across yours, obviously reveling in having something to thrust as the dildo drags across your pubic hair. His kiss is warm and sweet, flavored with the milk of whatever sugarbomb cereal he ate before you got here. His hands are still going everywhere over your shirt, stroking the underside of a roll of fat here, dimpling more fat there. The tip of the dildo bumps against you sometimes, cool and hard and yielding all at once, and you shiver at the reminder that Dave intends to put it inside you. 

“Karkat,” Dave whispers, one flat palm making circles over one of your nipples, which makes your brain buzzy and your arms limp above your head, and you nod. “You’re... You’re clean down here, right?” 

“Fuck you!” you yell, all four limbs conspiring to shove Dave away. “Why would you—Jesus! Fuck off! Leave me alone!” 

“It’s a legitimate question!” he protests, dodging your barrage. “Come on, dude, let’s not be like this. Yes or no question.” 

“Yes! Yes, you piece of shit! I mean,” you snort, “it’s not like I showered this morning laboring under the delusion that you’d decided to fuck me blind, or anything! That would be weird. _Yes_ , alright?” 

“Haha, fuck! Look at you, you’re so fucking red,” Dave says as he shifts down your body. 

“Yeah? You try being asked if your asshole is ready to get fingered, see how cool you stay, jackass.” A slim finger glides behind your balls and between your ass cheeks, making you shudder again. “The hell do you think you’re doing?” 

“Shit. Right, alright.” He disengages to dig through the detritus left behind from unboxing his gifts, and resurfaces with these two dinky little packets of lube that make your brows shoot up to your hairline. “What? This is what I have. You thought my family would include lube? I’m pretty sure they meant this as some kind of incredible, expensive joke. See? This is me calling their bluff.” He pops a packet open, and pours it out onto his fingers. “Prepare your ass, literally.” 

“No, that’s your job,” you retort, clenching your teeth when the cold lube touches to your asshole. You close your eyes, and at first you hate it, you hate every fucking second Dave spends opening you up. He pours lube from the first packet onto your cock, strokes you until it’s warm and you’re hard, but you feel way too full with just two fingers inside you. Between that and the way he’s got your legs halfway in the air, pushing your belly up between them, you miss your dignity. Dave murmurs against your skin where neck meets shoulder, keeps asking _is this okay? does that hurt? do you like that?_ and it takes everything in you to not snap at him to just do it already. 

“That should do it,” Dave says at what feels like a random point in time, as if he has any idea. You want to go back in time, to a simpler era where Dave liked to put his hand on your dick and there was nothing more complicated than that happening in your sex life. Now you feel like your guts are going to fall out through your butt, and at this point you _refuse_ to not get some kind of phallic object up your ass after all this fucking trouble. 

“My ass feels like ten kinds of weird, and personally, I blame you,” you say as you shift to your side to look at him. “I expect full compensation, Strider. Reparations.” 

“Take off your shirt,” Dave says suddenly, fiddling with the adjustors on the sides of his harness. He looks at you from the corner of his eyes, like he’s got some shifty ideas tucked behind them. 

“Why all of a sudden?” you ask with a start, swallowing to try and get your heart back down where it belongs. 

“Please, Karkat,” he begs, but thank fuck, he’s learned to not grab at your shirt hem, just sits there waiting patiently. “I just... I mean look, we’re both gonna say this a million times over, for everything, but if you don’t wanna, you don’t gotta. I will,” and he waddles over to you on his knees, “make the gentlest love to your ass. Your ass is gonna be in love with what I’ve got in store for it.” He pats his cock. “And you can get that with your shirt on if you want.” 

“I don’t know what the obsession is,” you say, running the hem of your shirt between thumb and index finger as you pull it down further. “There’s nothing nice or fun underneath, I promise. It’s just gross.” 

“You keep saying that, but I’ve been touching up on it, and it didn’t feel gross to me,” he says, one finger trailing along your dick. You take a breath, shaky and deep. “Up to you, though. Gonna say it a million times more. You want me to drop it?” 

You peel your shirt off slowly, hunching into yourself when you see how Dave takes in the sight of you completely naked. He pushes you back one more time, and as he looks over your horrible body, he produces another condom from under his mattress, opens it to roll it down his dick. He pops the second packet of lube, pouring it along the length of the dildo and stroking it; the way he pushes his hips into it, you’d think it really was attached to him. 

“I told you,” he says before you can even start, “nothing gross. It’s just you.” His free hand traces one of the many red and purple lightning bolts that decorate your stomach, your hips, your armpit fat, countless other places. “These look so cool.” 

“They’re stretch marks,” you say, arching your brows. “There’s nothing cool about them.” You almost shriek when he leans down and starts kissing the ones on your belly. You can’t even recover before you feel the tip of Dave’s Feeldoe, warmed by his touch, and he pushes the head of it inside you. 

You fall back completely, your forearm pressed over your eyes as you bite your lip. You don’t even know what that sound is you’re hearing until you realize it’s coming from you, a low whine sitting in the back of your throat. The next thing you hear is something that sounds like Dave asking if you’re okay, if it hurts, _shit I’m sorry I just read about this shit on the internet, we can stop, I’m sorry,_ and you grab him by the upper arms, chest heaving. 

“No—no, that’s not the issue,” you grit out, shaking your head. “It doesn’t hurt, it just feels _weird_. Don’t take it out, you huge screaming nerd.” 

“Huge screaming nerd? Huge screaming _nerd?_ ” Dave says incredulously. “Who in the sweet blue fuck are you calling a nerd?” He pushes forward, just enough to make you groan, your insides pushing back automatically. 

“You! You, if you don’t _fuck_ me already!” you shout, which is a string of words you would never have thought would ever come out of your wordhole. 

“God forbid anybody call me a nerd, then,” Dave says, and his hands push at the backs of your thighs as he spreads you wide and moves into you, slow and smirking. 

In a lot of ways, there’s not much difference from the way you usually make out. You curl your upper half forward to meet Dave’s kiss, and he wraps lube-slicked fingers around your cock to press it against his stomach as his hips move between your legs. It’s the way he thrusts into you, even if he hasn’t hit that spot that every asshole in every fanfic you’ve ever read seems to manage to find flawlessly, the feeling of something big and warm moving in and out of you. It’s the feeling of Dave’s warm bare thighs against your ass. His free hand roams across your body, skimming and caressing, and you don’t even have space left in your brain to call it disgusting. 

“Karkat,” Dave breathes against your lips, letting go of your cock, of the nipple he’s been playing with for the past solid minute, and you almost snarl in frustration. 

“What?” you ask as he sits up, unmoving inside you. You’re honestly used to the sensation at this point; you don’t know that you can adequately deal with him pulling out. “I’m having a perfectly nice goddamn time. Are you not?” 

“I just, uh. I can’t get any leverage this way,” he says with this jittery little shrug. 

“Leverage for what?” It’s not like you’re about to come from a thick plastic dick in your ass, but you’ve gotten to a point where it feels nice, and that’s all you really need here. 

“For—look, I’m not getting much friction here,” he says with the vaguest gesture toward his crotch. 

“Oh. _Oh._ ” You can feel your face heating; what a selfish fuck you are. You don’t even deserve what he’s doing for you right now, you don’t deserve—

“I know it means we can’t make out, but I’m thinking like, maybe you flip over, I do you from behind and get to go faster, everybody’s happy?” He shrugs again. 

“Yeah, why not,” you say, trying not to grumble. Dave’s face lights up and he scrambles backwards, pulling out in the process and it’s _cold_ and you feel loose and open. You have to get up completely to change position in this tiny bed, and you’re not gonna lie, you feel kind of like an animal on all fours to present your stretched asshole. Add another item to the list of lies fanfiction told you. 

Dave shuffles around behind you, and looking over your shoulder doesn’t afford you much of a view past your own body. But you can feel him pressing inside you again, and this time his dick vibrates as it penetrates you. You suck in a breath as his hands find holds on your hips, just under that warm place where your belly folds over, and your elbows buckle as the buzzing tip of his cock finds your prostate at last. 

You hug a pillow to your face as he fucks you, your belly grazing the mattress and your knees almost falling off the edges. You can’t close your fucking mouth because every time you think you’ve recovered, he bumps your prostate again and you moan, loud and long. Your cock hangs heavy and almost sore between your legs, but you can’t move to touch it as it leaks onto Dave’s sheets. At one point he pauses, and you want to yell _what the fuck is wrong with you_ only to yell _aah, ahh ahhhh_ instead when the vibrations intensify. Dave isn’t as loud as you, but to be fair that’s a real challenge; his moans are high-pitched and unrestrained, curving up in tone at the end of each one like questions. 

“Karkat,” he whimpers, in the highest voice he’s ever used around you, like it might be his natural voice, “Karkat, Karkat, Karkat...” And you want, in the back of your head, to reply with something like _I’m right here_ , but your brain short-circuits at any attempt to actualize sarcasm and you just reply in kind with his name until your voices blur together. 

Heat tightens in your gut and you try, you try so hard to hold it off because you don’t want this to stop but he says your name one more time, and your orgasm tears through you like it wants to kill you. For a second you think you’ve lost your vision; your body tightens and your brain lights up like a firework at close range. Dave’s fingers dig into your hips as he thrusts into you too hard and stays there, hips grinding against you as he pants. 

“Shit,” is the first thing he says as you come down from your orgasm. He pulls out in slow, jerky movements, and you can still hear the vibrations going for another few seconds until a few clicks turn them off. You can’t quite move, and not just because your thighs are still trembling—if you let your lower half sink down, you’re going to smear jizz all over your stomach. “Karkat? You okay?” 

“Look, I just need a minute to get my nerve endings back in order, alright? Give me a fucking second,” you say as you peel your face away from the pillow. “I might have drooled all over your pillow. Maybe. You’re welcome.” 

“Delicious. I’m gonna lick my pillow all night tonight,” Dave says. “I feel like a porn star right now, like we _totally_ came at the same time, almost.” You hear the smack of the condom being pulled off, and he walks around to the top end of the bed. “I can’t even believe I came. Like, I cannot _believe_ that is how it feels. Stop me right now, I’m gonna talk about this all day.” 

“In a minute,” you tell his legs. “I’m stuck like this until I have the strength to just like, roll off the bed, or I’m gonna be even grosser than I already am.” 

“You’re not—”

“I came all over your sheets, Dave. I have officially defiled your entire bed. You’re welcome, again.” You decide you don’t want to roll off the bed and potentially land on your ass, and hoist yourself up until you’re on your hands and knees to crawl back around the cumstain. Good thing Dave’s sheets are white. 

“Well, we can’t do the afterglow cuddling thing there,” he says with his hands on his hips as you both look at his bed. He’s still wearing the dildo, and it wobbles as he shifts his weight to one leg. “But hey, look. My plan worked out afterward. We both came, and now our heads are clear to be assholes about midwestern families who overschedule their kids for the rest of the afternoon.” He starts to wiggle out of his harness. 

“I thought you were kidding about Wife Swap,” you groan as you pick up your shirt and pull it on. 

“I would never kid about Wife Swap,” he says as he wipes the dildo off with his T-shirt and stuffs it and the harness into one of the boxes to toss it into the back of his closet. “I hope Rose finds that later and understands the consequences of her actions. Now come on, put your pants on and let’s go watch the pirate episode. Yarr!” 

“Yarr,” you answer with an exasperated sigh. “Fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. tell me all your feelings, all your hopes and dreams and predictions for the end, as well as your fears for it. you know how it goes
> 
> 2\. you know what a sweet ending to a chapter means if you've been on this ride with me this long


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a lot of good, a lot of bad, and almost the end

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (this chapter sponsored by tumblr user cuccumella! no, literally. c: thank you very much for your patronage!)
> 
> okay, so... this is almost it. i decided, in the end, that there needs to be an epilogue to this story—we've been together on this ride too long for there not to be. this chapter was very hard to write, and deals with a lot that's important to me, and i tried very hard to handle them appropriately, because these are not easy issues. 
> 
> that said, the tags are very important to watch for in this chapter, but moreover, **i have included a very blatant trigger warning line within the text itself** , so that you can, you know, not wait for the Bad Stuff to occur at any given point in the chapter, and so as to not surprise anybody, and therefore greatly reduce the possibility of triggering anybody. 
> 
> this chapter is almost 13k words long! can you believe it? i can't. the epilogue should be up by tuesday the latest, because i feel you'll need it.

It’s a cool final week of April, and Karkat’s made the mistake of inviting his elementary school friend to sit with you, him and Tavros and chill in a corner of Central Park not far from your school. It’s not that Sollux is a bore, exactly, because when he’s on the right topic he’s funny and almost even charming. But someone let him get onto the topic of college applications, and because Tavros doesn’t know the meaning of academic distress, he jumps right in. You and Karkat get kind of left on the sidelines while Tavros lists his many prestigious choices and Sollux says that he figures he’ll get into Drexel with plenty of scholarships. Then he starts listing the scholarships. 

This would all probably bother you a lot more if it weren’t for Karkat’s foot wound around your ankle. You don’t actually think he’s noticed it yet, because he gets so fucked up about public displays of affection, but the back of his hand just sort of rests casually against your knee and you end up sneaking your hand into his. Double points for the squeeze he gives before he realizes; triple points because instead of letting go he just pulls your hand into the shelter created behind both your knees and holds it there. Personally, you’re not that invested in Sollux or Tavros; they’re both Karkat’s friends primarily. This is only the second time you’re even meeting Sollux. Right now you’re way more interested in the idea of pulling Karkat away and leaving these two nerds to their conversation so you can kiss his face. 

“We could be talking about literally anything else right now, and you losers made the choice to talk about college applications,” Karkat interrupts, and while Sollux doesn’t look a bit phased Tavros bites his lip like he just made the ultimate faux-pas. 

“Well, I mean, where did you apply? I didn’t mean to leave you out,” Tavros says, well-meaning as ever, only to get Karkat rolling his eyes in return. 

“I don’t _want_ to fucking jabber on about like, ooh, I applied to Yale! Ooh, Karkat, do you think you’ll be going to Cornell like your brother? Ooh, Karkat, you can do better than City College! Ooh, Karkat, you need to apply to more schools because what happens if you don’t get into any of them? Ooh, Karkat, you should have fucking applied yourself more to your schoolwork!” He glares at the both of them, and Tavros seems to fold in on himself, which is impressive for such a burly dude. Sollux has at least enough decency to look at the ground between his feet. 

“Look,” Karkat sighs, “I didn’t mean it like that, alright? I just meant like, look at this wide range of topics we could be covering that don’t make me like a useless sack of shit. Like, I don’t know...” He casts around for a topic, literally looking around like he’s going to find his change of subject in other park-goers. 

“Like this lady sunbathing in 65 degree weather,” you supply, pointing a helpful finger to identify the skinny young white woman lying on her stomach on a blanket in the middle of a gently-sloping hillside. Her bikini is highlighter yellow and her skin is probably covered in goosebumps. You don’t quite have the eagle eyes to spot that kind of detail, but there’s nothing stopping you from making an educated guess. 

“What in the blue fuck is going on there?” Karkat wants to know as Tavros and Sollux follow your finger to find her. Sollux reaches into the breast pocket of his windbreaker and squints before sliding on wire-frame glasses. 

“Wishful thinking,” Sollux snorts. “All she needs going on behind her are two buff white dudes playing frisbee.” 

“Ultimate frisbee,” Tavros adds. “I, uh, I don’t even know what the difference is. But I feel like ultimate frisbee, is what’s called for, here.” 

“Maybe you have like, five frisbees all going at once, and you have to catch them with both hands, both feet, and your mouth to score a point,” you say. Karkat’s hand gives yours a secret squeeze as he laughs and calls that the stupidest idea he’s heard this week. Tavros says that must mean you’re not far off. 

“Have you heard from your buddy?” Sollux asks in the midst of all this, and the laughter subsides almost instantly. “You know, the—” 

“I’m pretty sure I can guess who you mean without any extra help,” Karkat snaps. “ _Thanks._ ” 

“I was just trying to make conversation,” Sollux mutters, digging long bony hands deeper into the pockets of his jacket. 

“Yeah? We already had one, and it was going real goddamn nicely until you decided to interrupt with your little,” he lets go of your hand to make jazz hands at his friend, “question.” 

“S’alright,” says another voice, coming from behind the bench, and all four of your respective heads whip around to identify the voice’s owner. Gamzee gives you all an almost sheepish wave. “I ain’t mind gettin’ talked about if it’s by friends.” He gives Tavros in particular this warm, secretive smile. Tavros’s response is to turn right back around, mouth tight and eyes wide. The smile melts off Gamzee’s face. 

“Gamzee!” Karkat is the polar opposite of Tavros here, unabashed in holding his arms up for an awkwardly orchestrated hug from his gangly friend that involves Gamzee folding himself in half over the top of the bench. He gestures for you to scoot over, and when you do he makes room for Gamzee to vault over and plant his narrow ass between Karkat and Tavros. Tavros looks away, but he doesn’t get up. Karkat gives Gamzee a light punch in the shoulder. “Where the fuck have you been hiding?” 

“Around,” is Gamzee’s only infuriating answer. His expression is about as helpful. 

“Laying low from the cops, more like,” Sollux chimes in with snorting laughter that might be weirdly cute under other circumstances. Karkat leans forward to glare at him past Tavros and Gamzee. 

“Nah, ain’t none of that.” Gamzee picks at the ever-present dirt under his nails. “Ain’t no witnesses, ain’t nobody to say Mister Reid was accosted by some other young hooligan of mystery in the month of March, of the year of our lord two thousand and thirteen.” 

Tavros swallows visibly. “What do you mean, no witnesses?” you want to know, leaning past Karkat and bracing yourself on his thigh. “That lady—”

“—Could not be found for comment, but sources unknown suggest she’s living life a little easier these days.” Gamzee flicks the dirt away, jiggling his knee without looking at any of you. “And I’m not supposed to say else on the matter. I don’t like violence, Karkat, you know that.” 

“Is that supposed to be some kind of joke?” Tavros blurts out with a high-strung giggle. “You were on the news for, for breaking somebody’s arms!” 

“Dislocated,” Gamzee corrects. 

“Allegedly,” Karkat clarifies. 

“Whatever!” Shaking muscular hands card through Tavros’s shaggy mohawk; the sides need major buzzing. “I just—” 

“I did it for Karkat, and for no other reason but that one,” Gamzee says, and there’s this moment where he holds Tavros’s gaze where you wonder if the rest of you shouldn’t just bounce. “If you don’t wanna be my friend no more, Tav, I gotta respect that.” 

“I don’t know,” Tavros responds in a small voice. 

“I mean, either way, that kid’s not gonna be fucking with Karkat anymore,” Sollux says, because you guess he has no sense of what _time and a place_ means. It breaks the mood, if not the tension. “He’s been out of the hospital how long?” 

“Almost this whole month,” you say. Tavros is still looking at Gamzee like he’s gonna be sick, and if you didn’t know any better you’d say Gamzee might want to cry. You desperately wish they’d go hash this out somewhere else, somewhere private maybe but definitely not here, because awkward is not even close to describing the air hanging all around your little group right now. “We both see him, but he looks right fucking through both of us.” 

Gamzee gets up, and as he heads for a nearby tree, Tavros follows suit. All three of you remaining fall silent, watching even as you know you should be leaving them to it, as if privacy exists in Central Park. It’s Tavros who does most of the talking, even though you can’t make any of it out; he talks with his hands, rapid movements that spell out indecision, supplication, even a tinge of fear. Throughout it all Gamzee remains quiet, still, hands in his pockets where they pose no threat to anyone. Tavros’s sigh is obvious even from here, and then he offers a little smile that makes Gamzee break out into a big obnoxious grin. Tavros opens his arms; Gamzee falls into them gratefully, even his long arms not reaching all the way around that deep chest. Then in a move that leaves you in shock and Karkat apparently bewildered, Gamzee plants this most sexless kiss on Tavros’s forehead, like he’s blessing him. He holds his face with delicate fingers a few seconds longer, and they part ways, Tavros coming back toward the bench. When you look for Gamzee he’s fucking ghosted. He’s good at that for someone who, according to Karkat, falls off furniture when he’s high. 

“The hell was that?” Karkat wants to know as Tavros sits back down. He sure does look dreamy for someone who looked on the verge of a panic attack not even ten minutes ago. “Are you dating? Have you been dating Gamzee motherfucking Makara?” 

“What? Oh, uh, no. We’re friends. He’s not really interested in dating, either.” He waves like there’s a fly by his ear. 

“How sure are you about that?” Sollux snickers. “Dude looked like he was bestowing his love on you over there.” 

“I told him I still want to be friends but, he can’t meet my family, because I don’t want them potentially involved in, whatever it is his dad is doing these days.” 

“Allegedly,” you feel the need to add, and Karkat turns back to glare at you, but it only lasts a second before he laughs. 

Not long afterward it gets too windy for Sollux; he doesn’t appreciate it as much as Karkat does when you point out the irony of him being the one wearing a windbreaker. Sollux has work to do, and Tavros promised his family he’d do a thing with them, par for the course. Karkat clasps his hand around yours, a particular brazen move coming from him, and quietly suggests going back to Washington Heights. You ask him if he really has to ask. 

Ever since the end of spring break things have been on the upturn. It’s not that Karkat isn’t a naturally affectionate person, but without Brandon around to keep his anxiety somewhere in the vicinity of through the roof, he laughs more, he snaps less, and in strangely unrelated news, he’s stopped tearing down his body so goddamn much. He surprises you with sneaked kisses on the ear right in the middle of the 3pm crowd on the 1 train, and with his new enthusiasm for getting naked with you. He still pushes your hands away from certain rolls of fat out of habit; you ask him, _are you sure? Can I touch?_ and he nods, with extra vehemence when you ask a second time. You’re not letting him acquiesce this time. 

Your favorite development since spring break, though, has got to be when Karkat agrees to get on top of you. Or well, he agrees to a minimum of ten seconds on top of you; you have to bargain up from five seconds. He keeps pleading with you to tell him if the pressure gets to be too much, if you can’t breathe, if anything hurts, and you tell him to stop treating you like a delicate flower. You’re a man with big manly hips, and you can take it. 

The truth turns out to be that you can’t take it when Karkat sits all 350ish pounds of himself (he told you the exact number, you just can’t remember it) across your pelvis, but instead of telling him so you tug him forward to kiss you. He’s more used to the preparation it takes for you to open his ass up, although you don’t think you’ve ever laughed so hard as when he brought you a box of latex gloves, completely red-faced and mumbling something about cleanliness. 

When he sinks down onto your cock he bites his lip and his eyelids flutter, his thighs straining to keep his weight from pressing into your hips too much. You can’t pick whether you like it better when he does all the work of bouncing on your dick or when you thrust up into him. The latter makes his legs tremble, but there’s something extra special about seeing him pleasure himself with even a temporary extension of your body. You stroke him in time with his movements because he can’t concentrate on touching himself when you’re fucking him like this; he comes hard enough that it hits your binder. He apologizes and you just laugh as you peel off your binder, because somehow you’ve forgotten there’s breasts underneath, and you’re only reminded when Karkat dutifully looks away. You hurry into the bathroom to scrub it, reflecting on what a good boyfriend you have. 

You still give Karkat handjobs, the occasional beej, because he’s not always down to have his ass loosened up on a school night, but you’ve put Bro and Rose’s bizarrely-intentioned gift to way more use than you ever expected to. The secret to your orgasm, you’ve discovered, is when you make Karkat come with your cock, or at least on it. When you feel the rush overcome you, leaving smoking skid marks on your brain as it zooms past, you feel so goddamn fulfilled. You feel like a _man_ , even if you could never explain exactly why, not even with Rose’s most invasive line of possible questioning. 

When you get home from the park Rose and Jade are not just in the apartment, they’ve taken over the entire living room. They’ve got big cuts of various green fabrics, some shimmering, some glittering, and a big wad of multicolored tulle that is taking up the entire couch. “The fuck is going on here?” you want to know, only to be snapped at by Rose as you approach that you better not come near her fabric, no, not even with your shoes off. 

“We wanna be in the Mermaid Day Parade this year!” Jade says with a grin, looking up from what looks like some serious pattern drafting with a pencil and curved plastic instruments. “We already have our costume designs done, but we have to actually make them now, and do them in a not-shitty way.” She gives you this purposely buck-toothed grin, wiggling her eyebrows before she returns to her work. 

“So you just, what, couldn’t think of a better idea than cramming all this shit into our tiny-ass living room? On a _Tuesday?_ ” You try to give Rose a meaningful look like _I reserved the goddamn apartment today_ but she’s not paying you any attention. 

“Because I can’t exactly be measuring myself for a dress in front of my parents,” Jade says as she marks a quick straight line along a plastic ruler. “Seventh Day Adventists, you know. Not really into all of that.” 

“This whole time I thought you were Pentecostal,” you snort, jumping back just in time to dodge a flick in the shin from your sister. “Damn, Rose!” 

“Look, we can just hang out today,” Karkat says quietly, face pinkening when Jade snickers. 

“Nobody said hanging out was ever off the table,” you snort, and you pull a big bougie bow with the sweeping arm and everything, before doing your best ballerina jump over their work area to get to your room. Rose slow-claps, looking at you with the most unamused expression. Then both girls look to Karkat, who just kind of stands there helplessly twisting his fingers together until Rose sighs and clears a path. 

What it means is that if you wanna have a nice afternoon alone with Karkat—not even necessarily to fuck, but to not have your sister busting in on your show-watching cuddles and conversations every time she needs even the slightest thing—you’re going to have to go into Queens a lot more. You can’t complain about the trip, because it’s as long a trip home from your place for Karkat as it is for you and he manages to stand it, but neither of you are about to risk transporting a goddamn dildo in your bookbags on the train, not even on a weekend. Karkat lines up Ben 10 to watch; the boy is seriously into cartoons, and even more seriously into discussing them the same way you would Oscar bait movies. 

It’s not like you were having sex on the daily before the banishment from your room, even with Karkat’s sex drive starting to catch up to yours these days. His computer is better to watch shit on, too, and his dad is like ten thousand times better at keeping the fridge stocked with delicious Mexican leftovers. Karkat’s pretty good at the hidden snack game, himself. Shit, you haven’t had a Zebra Cake since you were ten. You ask him why he keeps the snacks in the back of one of his desk drawers like contraband and he refuses to talk about it. 

The thing is that as you head into May and Rose continues to hog the living room with her stupid mermaid shit, you can’t get off no matter how much Karkat tries. And he really, _really_ does, until you tell him to give up and explain to you why this one dude thinks he’s got the right to make fun of the Tennyson family all having rhyming names when he’s got a name like Kevin E. Levin. The most ridiculous thing you try is dry humping Karkat in the almost-nude (he still likes to keep his shirt on half the time, and you always keep your binder on) but you both feel really weird about it and you both end up putting your underwear back on to go back to watching cartoons. Karkat always hides his underwear when it’s not on his body. 

But he never gets frustrated with you, at least not visibly, and at least twice you catch him mumbling something that sounds like _love you_ as he dozes on you, your fingers trailing through his milk-colored hair. 

And one fine day in the middle of May, Rose slingshots something across the room to hit you in the back of the head, berating you to keep your belongings on _your_ side of the room, and you pick it up to find that one pair of mint green panties that Karkat planted in your locker all those months ago. The BEACH BUM stamped across the ass is still in perfect condition, the crotch unpilled and without discoloration because you’ve never worn them; your transvestism is mostly a weekend phenomenon at this point, sometimes culminating in almost-not-joking dance-offs between you and Jade, but you honestly forgot you even had these anymore. You cannot even begin to remember what happened to the rest of them—no, wait, here they come, flying through the air with a frustrated huff from your sister. _All this Victoria’s Secret shit is yours, Dave, why don’t you actually pay some modicum of attention to where you put your belongings?_

Friday morning you dress quickly; binder, loose t-shirt that doesn’t drape much, slim-fit jeans that still hide the shape of your legs and can be pushed down far enough to diminish the curve of your hips and the presence of your ass, Adidas kicks that make your feet look long and wide. Big-ass hoodie because it’s still chilly in the mornings heading to school. The only difference is the feeling of cotton flush to your crotch, leg holes high, waistband low across your ass. And you reach under your mattress to get the rest of those condoms, tucking them into the deepest darkest pocket of your bookbag. 

You feel the panties all day, although part of that might be the fact that they don’t actually totally fit your giant ass and thick thighs. At least two classes get devoted to lectures about everyone needing to have their college shit in order because, hey, the end of the year is coming. No, you don’t have any scholarships, no, you’re not interested in out-of-state colleges. You’re not even really interested in colleges upstate. You don’t even want to go to college but Bro won’t let you opt out, and Rose has already been accepted to FIT _and_ RISD. 

You’re only too happy to escape college talk at the end of the day, and when you see Karkat come out of the school building you dash up to him, urging him toward the station like your ass is on fire. You catch sight of Brandon; he looks away immediately. Karkat wants to know what the rush is. You tell him to have some patience. 

“Alright, so,” you say as you enter Karkat’s apartment, “here’s the deal.”

“The last time you talked like that, you made me play guessing games about what’s in your pants.” Karkat hangs up the hoodie he’s carrying. 

“So, okay then, I’m a little predictable,” you say with a shrug. “So sue me.” 

“So what am I guessing at this time then? The kinds of drugs you’re smuggling in your underwear?” You skip backward toward his room and he follows. 

“Smuggling is such a weird word,” you say. “Smuggle. Smuggle. You see how it loses all meaning?” 

“You’ve got a condom full of cocaine up your ass and you’re trying to tell me, in Strider code, that it might have broken and you need medical attention,” Karkat says with this most serious of faces, like that’s a real guess, stroking the beard he doesn’t have. “Did I get it right?” 

“Fuck you,” you laugh, pushing at his shoulder. Just before you stop laughing you think you hear a _You promise?_ , but when you tell him to say again what he just said, he denies having spoken at all. 

Karkat insists on watching _every_ episode of Ben 10, even the godawful Ultimate Alien ones, which he says might feel stilted and out of character but are still canonically important. You agree to at least two episodes, because that’s two less you’ll have to watch later, but any more than that and you’ll fall asleep on purpose just to spite him. You say you think Ben is totally trans for about the billionth time, and Karkat just kind of nods and makes sounds of agreement as you spin out a list of reasons. He seems at least slightly less lost than usual. 

Afterward you gossip over snacks, mostly about Gamzee and Tavros. Appearances of Gamzee are still pretty sparse, but apparently that’s not the case for Tavros, who clutches at his face and says “I don’t know” a lot almost every time he’s asked about what’s going on with Gamzee, exactly, a secretive smile telling you he most certainly does know. You sit against the headboard, Karkat reclining against your chest, and you keep brushing cookie crumbs out of his hair. 

“You know, you never actually guessed what I’ve got in my pants,” you say as you push his hair upward into a fin on his head, or try to, anyway. 

“If it’s not a condom full of coke, it’s not worth guessing,” he replies, knocking your hands away and flattening his hair back into place. 

“It’s worth guessing.” You lean forward, resting your cheek on the warm top of his head. “You could always just stick your hand down my pants again, though.” 

Karkat sits up at that, with enough warning that he doesn’t conk you in the chin as he does, and gives you this frown like he’s waiting for the punchline. You clasp your hands behind your head and lean back, legs outstretched around him as he slowly maneuvers onto his knees to crawl up to you. Your heart hammers in your chest, spurred on by that last remaining voice that tells you you’ve crossed a line, Karkat was willing to put up with everything else because at least you acted like a boy, but this is a girl thing you’re doing, he’s going to think you’re a girl—

He kneels between your legs and unbuttons your jeans, his knuckles feeling heavy against the thin cotton of your underwear. At first all that’s revealed is mint green, and he just kind of shrugs, looking at you. “It’s a nice color? It...” He looks again, squinting. “It’s riding lower than your usual? What exactly am I looking for here?” 

“Don’t let anyone ever tell you you’re not a big obnoxious nerd, Karkat Vantas,” you say, putting his hands on the waistband of your pants as you lift your butt. He gets the message, huffing at you as he pulls down. You make a big production out of kicking your jeans the rest of the way off with windmilling legs, Karkat leaning back with a squawk, and he snatches your ankles out of the air to pin them by his knees just to get you to stop. And then he looks. 

“Oh.” In the dim light of his room his blushing isn’t obvious at first. “Are those...” 

You wiggle your ankles out of his grasp, flipping onto your stomach just to show him that yeah, these are _those_. “One of the pairs you put in my goddamn locker when you thought I was trying to troll your entire life? Yeah, congratulations, dude! You got eyes in your head.” 

“That was a legitimate prank based on the legitimate idea that you were an asshole trying to fuck with me at the time,” he sniffs, in a way you don’t think you should tell him is super similar to his brother. You can feel the heat of his hand hovering over your ass, hesitant even now about touching without a ten paragraph discussion beforehand, and you push your ass up against his hand. You catch it when he swallows that yelp, and you chuckle as you turn onto your back again. 

“Yeah, now I’m just the asshole trying to fuck you all the time,” you murmur, giving yourself a mental high five for how smooth that was. You get another one because you can see how red Karkat gets even in this light. “I can’t believe you still get all bashful after I’ve literally fucked you like,” you pretend to count on your fingers, “at least five times, definitely, since the first time. So that’s like, six if you count that, maybe even seven if we’re just doing it so much I can’t even remember.” 

“Because I have a sense of shame so intense I could become some almighty shame deity,” Karkat says, drumming his fingers on his knees as he looks at your underwear again. You suppress the urge to cross your legs. “The altars to me will either be tiny because it’s shameful to worship the shame god, or they’ll be huge to cast the biggest shadow of shame over my followers.” 

“Yeah, well, I’m gonna worship at your huge shame altar, like...” You grimace. “That one wasn’t going anywhere good.” 

“I don’t get what you want me to do here.” He’s blunt this time, at least. “Every time I try to get you off you tell me to stop and we go back to watching episodes.” 

“I was hoping for a better reception than this, to be honest,” you say, biting one side of your lower lip. “You know I wore these all day at school, right?” That doesn’t really get you any kind of response other than Karkat looking totally lost for words. You might as well get honest with him. “I sat through Ms. Green’s entire sermon on how The Great Gatsby is a powerful book thinking about you fucking me, Karkat, what do you think of that?” And bam, the blush that had started to fade comes back double strength. Dude is gonna just permanently transmogrify into a tomato one of these days. 

“What a fucking liar!” he splutters, looking away with that red, red face. “You were not.” He glances at you, hand over his mouth and muffling him. “You were not!” 

Maybe if you swallow, your body will think you just took a swig of liquid courage, because you’re pretty sure you need it for what comes out your mouth next. “Like, alright, picture it, okay? Like picture that you’re already hard,” your toes skim over the front of Karkat’s pants and you’re already half-right, “and you don’t even have to picture that you’ve got me on my back with my pants off, because, wahey! Here the fuck I am.” 

He’s biting his lip and you take some of the truth out of that last statement by rolling up into a sitting position to put your fingertips at the button of his jeans. He gives you a subtle nod and you undo the fly. “And you just, I don’t know, you push aside the crotch of these panties you bought with your own hard-earned allowance money, right, and,” you pull the thick soft waistband of his underwear just under the head of his very erect dick, which drips precum onto said waistband, “you push this big, thick cock right into me.” Cut, print, porn star cheesy. You don’t know that you’d actually classify Karkat’s penis as necessarily big _or_ thick, although you do give him bonus points for being incredibly meticulous about cleaning under his foreskin. 

“Dave,” he whimpers as you swipe a thumb over the slit of his dick, rubbing small wet circles around it. 

“You don’t gotta yell, I’m right here,” you say as your other hand works at pushing the top of his pants down. 

“It hurt you, the last time we tried,” he says, quiet as he helps you get the heavy denim off. His underwear goes with it and he takes a second to kick his jeans just so, so that both his underwear and the crotch of the jeans are hidden. “You literally cried, and maybe this makes me weird but I’m not particularly _into_ making someone I—someone I like cry.” 

“Who cried? I didn’t cry. I told my sister and I’m gonna tell you, my tear ducts ran away from home when I was but a wee lad, still full of hope and wonder,” you say as you wrap your hand around his dick. “I don’t even know what crying is. Can I eat it?” He braces himself on both your shoulders, biting his lip around the high pitched moans that escape him. For a moment it makes you wish you were up in Washington Heights, or at least had your Feeldoe with you, because when he shakes like this at the slightest touch it makes you want to lay him down and fuck him, bring out more of those sounds. You consider telling him that. 

You get him naked before you come even close to the same, and lay him down against his pillows to straddle his hips. You kiss his chest, you kiss his neck, you kiss your way up his jaw and to his lips; you feel awkward doing it because it always seems to elicit like, gasping responses in movies, but Karkat kind of writhes into it and that works for you, too. You can feel his dick bumping against your ass as you move together, and it’s so fucking _tempting_ to pull your underwear aside and just push back onto it raw, really _feel_ him in you. But just the thought of a lecture from Bro if something, you know, came of it, it’s enough to deter you. 

“So guess what I brought,” you say, grinding against Karkat’s dick anyway. You figure it’s gotta be fine so long as it doesn’t go inside you. 

“For fuck’s sake, Dave, no more guessing games,” Karkat groans. “You know what I guess? I guess that the sky is blue. I guess that Pluto is no longer considered a planet by the majority of the scientific community. I guess that we’re both really goddamn horny, and somehow this leads to you wanting me to put it in you. How am I doing so far, fuckstick?” 

“Very nice! How’d you know I was gonna ask about Pluto?” you reply with a laugh. “But nah, seriously. Guess.” 

“Aargh!” He snaps the elastic of the panties against your hips, and you yelp but you’re laughing at his frustration anyway. “No! I don’t wanna fucking guess! Just tell me, before I put my clothes back on!” 

Still chuckling, you slide off his bed to root around in your bookbag until you find that deep secret pocket. “Condoms and lube, bruh. Secret ingredients to actually making this happen.” You toss a wrapped condom his way, and he utterly fails to catch it; you both watch it fall down the side of the bed and disappear into the shadowy abyss. “Shit. Alright, that one’s for later.” You pull another out, keeping a firm hold on this one as you climb back into bed with the little bottle of lube you’ve been using on his ass this past month. There’s just enough for today, you’re pretty sure. “Don’t drop this one,” you say as you hand him the second condom. 

“Don’t drop this one,” he mimics with a bobble of his head as he opens it. “Dave, why am I the only naked one in this room?” 

“Because you’re not proactive about it,” you say, but you humor him and peel your shirt off, leaving you in your binder and panties. He never asks anymore why your binder stays on when he’s utterly exposed. He’s got the condom rolled halfway down his flagging erection, and you lend a hand both to roll the latex to the base and get Karkat back in action. 

“You’re sure?” Karkat asks again as you pick up the bottle of KY, and it psychs you the fuck out, makes you remember the tight sting of the first and last time you tried to sit on his dick. You kiss him instead of answering, hands skimming his nipples and grabbing fistfuls of soft flesh. There’s a short moment of panic—shit, he doesn’t like his chest being grabbed like that, how could you forget—and he surprises you by pushing your hands back against his chest and keening softly into your sloppy kissing. 

“Didn’t think you’d like that, thought I’d fucked up there,” you gasp, words hitching when his hips thrust up, pressing his boner hard and hot against your crotch. You want it, you want it, you want it...

“Only if you’re doing it,” he says. His hands are like furnaces against your already burning skin as they trail along your thighs. “I just, I trust you, you know?” 

“Yeah,” you murmur, as the flush of your body spreads to your face. “Me too. I mean, that I trust you too, not that like, I trust myself, although generally speaking I trust the good ol’ Strider Intuition—” 

“Dave!” 

“Yeah. Right.” You clear your throat. “You ready?” 

“If you are,” he says, giving your legs a squeeze of solidarity. 

“I’m always ready,” you say as you move back to kneel over his thighs, pouring lube all over the condom and giving it a couple of quick strokes. “I’m ready for anything, motherfucker, that’s the Dave Strider way.” When you pull the crotch of the panties aside and pour a liberal amount onto your fingers to put inside yourself, you have this moment that feels like you’re falling out of your own body that you can’t explain, and then you’re shuffling forward into position. You reach back between your legs, grasping Karkat’s dick. It burns in your hand through the latex as you push the tip against yourself, against where you know your body opens up whether you like it or not. Your brain is flooded with every fantasy you’ve had about Karkat fucking you, flashing stronger like that’s going to make it happen when you try to sink down and all you feel is pain and resistance. You don’t even realize you’re gritting your teeth until Karkat puts a soothing hand on your face, another on your shoulder. He says your name. 

“No! No, I’m getting this.” You shake his hands off, and try again. Everything inside you feels slick and ready but it doesn’t matter, because you can’t find an angle that will make the pressure stop, and you swear to god you’re going to cry out of pure frustration. 

“Jesus, Dave—” He reaches for you again, for your waist this time. You slap them away, but your legs can’t handle squatting like this for much longer and they’re shaking with the effort, and nothing is fucking _working_. “Dave!” 

“What?” you snarl. “What do you want? I’m fucking busy here, if you didn’t notice! You know, what with having the _worst pussy ever!_ ” 

He hunches down into his pillows, and you sigh. “I’m an asshole, Karkat, I’m sorry. I’m just...” You let go of his penis, and lay yourself along his body, crossing your arms over his chest and resting your chin on the crux of them. “Like I want either a functioning dick or a pussy I can at least get some use out of, that’s all.” His hands feel so big on your upper back, even when they look so small just looking at him. 

“I can’t believe you said pu—that word,” he mumbles, rubbing slow circles on your back. 

“Pussy,” you say, and he looks at his shoulder in embarrassment. “Pussy, Karkat, I want you to fuck my pussy. I want you to stir up my insides!” 

“Get the fuck off, you hentai-reading piece of shit!” he barks, but he’s laughing and his pushes at your shoulders are weak from it. 

“Maybe the key here,” you say, drumming your fingers on his collarbone, “is positioning. Maybe to stir up my insides we gotta flip this whole setup.” 

“Stop saying ‘stir up my insides’!” Karkat protests. 

“What if,” you continue, and you can feel your face heating up as you recall some of your first fantasies about Karkat, “what if you get on top of me? Do it up old-fashioned missionary style.” 

“Okay, one, you’re going to have bone powder for a pelvis,” Karkat says, counting off on your back. “Two, I don’t see how that’s going to help. If all the angles suck, what the fuck’s the point in coming at it from a different direction?” 

“How about we just try it before we get all negative, huh?” you say, pushing yourself back up into a sitting position crawling back between his legs. “Jesus, Karkat, don’t go soft just because we were having a reasonable conversation.” You give him a few cursory strokes before he starts to pull himself into an upright sitting position. 

“That’s what happens,” he grunts. He has to get off the narrow twin to let you take his place against the mountain of pillows up against the wall, and he tries to be so delicate about getting back up. He doesn’t like gravity’s effect on his body when he crawls toward you, but at least he’s stopped trying to take every possible measure to hide his belly. “I still don’t know about this, Dave. I don’t wanna be in charge of how deep it is.” 

“I still wanna try,” you say, shivering when his knees bump your spread thighs. 

“With the underwear on, and everything?” You pass him the lube when you see him looking for it, and he tries very much to look like he knows what he’s doing when he pours it along the length of his dick, yelping when some of it drips onto his sheets. 

“Part of the fantasy, babe,” you say with a waggle of your eyebrows. “Gotta complete the circle, here. This all started with prank panties, and it’s gonna end in prank panties.” He gives you this look, pausing in putting the bottle aside. “Okay well not _end_ , calm down. You know what I mean.” He snorts. “But yeah.” 

HIs hand makes slick noises stroking the lube all along his dick, and as he leans forward you curl your body up to meet him in a kiss. His belly is warm and soft on top of you; you can’t help but grope at his chest again, just for those little moans he makes when you twiddle his nipples erect. And he’s right in that he’s heavy, a firm weight pressing your whole body into the mattress, but you can still breathe, and there’s something namelessly erotic in this reminder that another living, breathing human being wants you at all. 

“Ready?” he whispers again, and you can feel the head of his dick being positioned against you as your underwear gets pushed aside one more time. 

“We’ve been through this, Karkat,” you say, spreading your legs wider until the stretch stings a little, “I’m ready for anything. Strider style. Let’s go.” 

The first thing you feel, honestly, is vindication. It’s not exactly an easy slide in, but there’s almost no pain, and he’s inside you to the hilt before you even know it. You feel every inch of him as it pushes in. It makes you feel so _full_ ; you take back everything you said about Karkat not being too big before, because it feels huge inside you. You feel dizzy. 

“Dave,” Karkat says, and you open your eyes, which you don’t even remember closing. He seems so far above you. “Are you okay?” 

“Fuck you, I was right,” you say with a breathy giggle. “Why the fuck are you all the way up there?” 

“My giant fat stomach gets in the way,” he says, giving said stomach a pat. “It’s either I’m in you all the way, or being able to make out. One or the other.” 

“My fault for being so damn short,” you say with a shrug. “You can do both.” 

“Dave.” 

“You sure are saying my name a hell of a lot for someone not screaming it out,” you huff. “Come on. Let’s do this, dude.” 

And he complies. It’s such a foreign feeling when he moves in you, slow like he’s afraid of breaking you; when the head of his cock presses against the back of... You don’t even know what you’ve got going on in there, but whatever limit he hits sends this tiny shockwave of unexpected pleasure up through your stomach and up to the roof of your mouth. Everything feels tight and swollen and sensitive. Your eyes are hooded; he keeps asking you if you’re okay, should he stop? You shake your head, reach your hands up to pull his face down to yours. The kissing is as slow as his thrusting, and you’ve already said it but you feel dizzy, dizzy, like you’re breathing in the air of a different planet. He doesn’t reach quite as deep when you kiss, as he promised, and you throw your arms around his shoulder even as you lock your ankles behind his hips, pushing him back into you. His stomach creates incredible pressure and you don’t care, you feel so fucking out of it and not even in a bad way. 

After five minutes of leisurely fucking, though, it’s not enough. You need it faster, harder, like fuck it, if you’re gonna do this then you wanna go all the way! Fucking commit to it! You gasp his name against his lips, _wait, wait,_ and he stops so dutifully it squeezes your heart right in half. “Go faster,” you plead, and he tries, but he limits himself because he’s so afraid of, what, jiggling? in front of you, and you say _wait_ again. 

“Let me be on top,” you say when he looks at you with curious—if half-lidded—eyes, pink lips parted so distractingly. “Let me up.” 

“That didn’t work before,” he says with a frown, although he still sits back. When his dick slides out of you you feel empty and oddly cold. 

“Just let me fucking _try_ , Karkat, like I appreciate you looking out for me but please, alright?” He nods, even with that dubious face, and you give him a swift kiss as you rise to your knees. It’s your turn to hop off the bed as he situates himself back against the pillows, as slow as he ever is. You’re quick to jump back up, and before he can even ask if you’re ready for what feels like the millionth time, you’re lining up his dick with your junk, and plunging down onto it. 

The pain is gone. You don’t know if it’s just being already stretched, if it’s that you didn’t expect it to hurt, if maybe wizards were involved—the pain is gone. You whimper as the front of your panties meets Karkat’s pubic hair, and for a moment you just stay there, twitching that one muscle to squeeze him inside you. His eyebrows are knit upward, lower lip bitten, eyes half-open, arms strewn around his pillows with weakly curling fingers. You lean forward and without lifting yourself up off his cock you can’t reach his face, but you put your mouth around one of his nipples and he moans in surprise, open-mouthed and loud. 

Your hips grind almost on their own, and it’s just as almost completely as fulfilling as you’d hoped for. It’s not like it’s the most electrifying thing but it doesn’t stop you from going so fast that eventually Karkat pops out of you, and you have to pause to put him back in. He wheezes for you to slow down because he’s going to come if you keep going at that rate, and you stop your hips but you don’t stop your attentions to the rest of his magnificent body. He bites his knuckle and whines around it when you gently bite a nipple, which has become one of your definite favorite places on Karkat. 

When you start up again you’re out of breath, your binder pressing your breasts flattish against your ribcage, and your fingers linger at the bottom of it before fuck it, _fuck it_ , Karkat likes you as the boy you know you are. He’s got his cock in your pussy, for fuck’s sake, and he still says your proper boy name under his breath like a prayer as you bounce on his dick and squeeze his waist. You want to fucking breathe. It comes off, utterly undignified when it rolls up your back and you have to reach around to grab at it. 

“Okay, so, ground rules,” you say as you frisbee your binder onto the floor and roll your hips enough to break Karkat’s staring at your chest. “Absolutely no touching. No mentioning of them. No touching. Like try not to even look at them. And _no touching._ ” He gives you this guilty look—he was totally looking and you both know it—and you snort. “I know, Karkat, they’ve fucking huge. They’re bazongas.” 

“I just thought you had like, big pecs, before I knew,” he says, looking at... your collarbone. You give his cheek the most delicate of slaps. 

“Well, isn’t that a relief,” you say with a derisive little snort. “You got the rules, right?” 

“No touching, no looking, no mentioning, no touching,” he recites, and you pat him on the head until he rolls his eyes. 

You feel wild up here, your hips as frantic as your heart. You take deep breaths without your ribs being constricted, arms held high until you almost fall over; Karkat holds you by the hips and you grab onto his forearms in turn. Your inner thighs are damp and the crotch of your underwear is fucking soaked from how wet you are. Every time you come down, Karkat’s cock hits deep within you in that spot you can’t name, and he looks so helpless in his pleasure as you are in yours. You can’t shut up. 

“Dave,” he whines, squeezing at your hips, and at first you think he’s just saying your name again, but he says it more urgently and you say _yeah?_ so he knows you’re listening. “I’m gonna come, I’m gonna come soon,” he says, breathless. 

“You want me to slow down?” you pant. You don’t want to slow down at all. Thankfully he shakes his head, and you ride the fuck on. You can feel your own pulse in your clit and god, what was keeping you from touching it all this time? In your sex fog you can’t imagine what it was as your fingers push under drenched cotton, between the lips of your genitals, bumping against where Karkat moves in and out of you before sliding back up to your clit. Pressure builds in your head, filled with the knowledge that Karkat is filling you up inside as you touch yourself, and when you hear Karkat telling you he’s about to come in you that pressure bursts, scattering through your body. You grind harder on both your fingers and his cock as your orgasm ricochets through you, your mouth working and your throat making sounds through it but without any idea what you’re saying. You’re almost disappointed your orgasm came when it did, because it’s winding down when you feel Karkat’s dick convulse within you, and he cries out, almost hyperventilating as he thrusts all the harder up into you. 

It takes you a moment before you remember that reality still exists. 

“Well that was invigorating,” you say, holding an invisible monocle up to your eye as you purse your lips. You climb down off Karkat’s lap and his softening penis falls out of you; you’re faster to catch the condom before it can slip off and spill everywhere, and he looks kind of taken aback by the knotted sack of semen that flies past his face to land in the garbage can. He hops down delicately, and reaches into the garbage can full of paper and old snack wrappers to shuffle things around. 

“So it was good, then?” Karkat asks, pulling on faded plaid pajama pants and a stained T-shirt. 

“Fuck yeah, it was good,” you reply, jumping down after him. You want to give him a hug from behind, but you’re suddenly very aware of your breasts, especially your inexplicably erect nipples, and you hurry to flatten your binder out so you can get it back on. You get a surprise when Karkat helps you pull the back of it into place. “That was goddamn fantastic, Karkat, like that was better than I could have fucking hoped for. Like—” You bite your lip as you step into your jeans, and turn to face him while zipping up. You wish now you’d taken off the panties for sex, because they don’t feel anything but soggy in your pants now. “I don’t even know how to say it, dude, like I expected my brain to fuck that all to hell and here we are acting like normal people after the fact.” You reach for your shirt. “Shit’s wild.” 

“Wild’s a good word for it,” he agrees, and he just stands there like he’s just met you, twiddling his bare toes and twisting his fingers together until you propel yourself forward to wrap your arms around his waist. 

“We can watch another episode of Ben 10 before I go,” you murmur into him. He bends to hug you back and he rests his cheek on your hair, squashing it. He hugs you like he needs you. “I love you,” you add, quiet so maybe his ears won’t hear, but you imagine that your words reverberate through his rib cage to his heart, so he’ll know anyway. He mumbles something in return, and because he says it into your hair you can’t hear him either, but you think your head knows it just the same. 

You want to stay the night, and when you mention it to Karkat in the middle of the episode he agrees, says yeah, he’s fine with you meeting his dad, or with his dad meeting you, whichever. But you promised Rose you’d spend at least Saturday morning helping her with the gathering on her endless tulle ruffles, and your idea of fun never includes riding the subway on a weekend morning. You kiss him gently as you shrug into your hoodie, tell him again you wish you could stay, but Rose would kick your ass. 

The ride home is spent in a euphoric haze. You imagine what it would be like to fall asleep next to Karkat, although realistically you’d probably banished to the couch because you both can’t fit on a twin without being on top of each other. You think about being on top of each other again, and you have to cross your legs.

**!****************************************TRIGGER WARNING****************************************!**

You wonder, as you step up onto the sidewalk an hour and a half after leaving Karkat’s place, what you can get Rose to do for you in exchange for helping with her stupid costume. You saw the design sketch once and Rose immediately hid it and told you to mind your own business, but holy shit, she wants to wear pasties. You wonder if that was Jade’s idea, because Rose has got tits as big as yours. Bigger, actually, you’re pretty sure. She’s a pretty modest young lady, in fact, so it’s _got_ to be Jade’s idea.

But you look up as you walk, and they’re waiting for you, arranged on the steps of your building. 

Your heart shoots up into your throat. In the dark of the poorly-lit night Jerry has the silhouette of a monster as he rises, fists balled and ready at his sides. Manny and Federíco stay seated, but the dim light glints off of Manny’s glasses and somehow only adds to the threat. You wish you had stayed with Karkat. You wish you’d texted Rose. You wish you hadn’t felt so lazy just thinking about taking the 7 on an early Saturday morning. You wish a whole lot more, but there’s no time to really list it all when Jerry is approaching where you’ve frozen in place. 

“Hi, Jerry,” you say as he comes to a stop only a few feet away from you. Anything to defuse this. You’ll say anything they fucking want if it gets you upstairs in one piece; maybe you can even get Bro to come down and scare them off for good, if he’s home, and he should be. 

Jerry greets you with your birth name, and you bite your tongue. 

“I just gotta run upstairs,” you say, dodging to Jerry’s right. Jerry moves with you, blocking your way. “Come on, man. It’s a Friday. Let me go home, huh?” You really hope your smile right now is affable and not scared, because scared is exactly what you are. 

“So,” Jerry says, stroking his chin, “what you’re saying is, you recognize right now that if I don’t let your punkass through, you can’t even go home. That’s what I’m hearing, right?” You didn’t even notice Manny and Federíco getting up, and now your only exit is behind you. 

“That’s what I heard,” Manny says. 

“You ain’t goin’ home, bitch.” Jerry steps closer, and you make the mistake of taking that same step backward. “Don’t you walk away from me!” He reaches for you, and you just barely duck away from his hand. 

“Yo, whoa, whoa! Who said I was walking away? I was just respecting your personal bubble, dude.” He grabs for you again, and this time he can’t miss, especially with Federíco grabbing your other shoulder. 

“Man, you know, I can just go. I can come back later.” You thumb over your shoulder—or over Federíco’s knuckles, really—and bend your knees as you move back to escape their literal clutches. Maybe you can make it back to the 1 train, make your way back to Queens and into Karkat’s warm, safe arms. 

Only Manny and Federíco have moved into place behind you, and you run right into a wall of crossed arms. Your heart doesn’t make a break for your mouth this time, opting instead to jackhammer against your ribs like it wants to break them. 

“Hold her,” Jerry says quietly, and their hands surround you. 

Your first punch is an uppercut to Federíco’s chin, his teeth clacking an ugly sound that echoes down the block. He staggers back and you’ve already delivered your second, a hammer fist to Manny’s face that knock the cheap glasses off his nose and spinning out somewhere on the sidewalk. Adrenaline pounds in your ears and the scope of your vision is exactly two feet in front of you. You launch yourself forward even as you feel Jerry fumble the back of your hood. Federíco is still down but you can hear two sets of feet pounding the pavement behind you. You’re faster and stronger than they are, and if you can just make it back to the train, maybe you’ll be fine. You might also utterly corner yourself in a place where your only exit is the tracks. 

A cacophany of sexist slurs and your birth name follow you as you race down Broadway. Your legs are short but swift, and your lungs are small but powerful. The backpack that bounces on your back is light, and you are not slowed down. One of the sets of steps slows down with that rubbery _slap slap slap_ of someone who just can’t keep running. Your survival is imminent. 

But a body slams into you from the right, and it’s Federíco, recovered just enough to blindside you at the corner. He must have come around on Wadsworth, you think as you hit the ground, your shoulder screaming, your teeth clenched. His legs stagger in your field of vision; he’s still woozy from your uppercut, you realize, and you capitalize as you wrap your arm around his ankles and bring him tumbling down. You push yourself upright on his stomach to push the rest of the air out of him, and give him an extra kick for good measure. Motherfucker. 

You turn around just in time to dodge Manny’s pathetic swing. Where’s Jerry? You really feel like you’re gonna make it, Bro’s endless Sunday drilling kicking in. Federíco coughs behind you but he’s too weak to get up, and you disorient Manny enough with a hard punch to the temple and another to the gut that you can take off again. Okay, sure, he got in some hits. But yours were way better. 

You jog back to Wadsworth, and on to St. Nicholas Ave; you don’t want to be on Broadway anymore. Maybe you can go get the A. Maybe you can even go back home and try to forget this whole nightmare happened. Losing sight of Jerry makes you nervous, not unlike losing a wasp in a large room, but after taking those two out, you feel kind of invincible, honestly. You hit your home block and let out a sigh of relief, slowing to a walk and heading toward your building. You pull your phone out, text Rose that you’re about to be home so she and Bro better have saved you some dinner. 

“Bitch!” Jerry’s voice tears out of the darkness, and a hand grabs your hood and yanks until the back of your head bounces off the bars next to a stoop. It leaves you reeling and lost, and you can only stumble along as he pulls you into the dark alcove where everybody throws their garbage bags. A punch right in the eye throws you against the wall, and you slide down, the rough exterior dragging your hoodie up as you go. 

“You thought you was so badass,” Jerry snarls as he stands over you, “like what, you took some self-defense classes and now you think you’re immortal or some shit?” 

“I can fucking take you,” you spit, albeit weakly, and he laughs. Jerry squats in front of you, holds your chin between thumb and forefinger in a gesture that’s way too intimate for him. 

“Please, little girl. Maybe in another lifetime, when you’re born with the dick you wish you had.” He goes from squatting to kneeling, between your legs, and a new, disgusting brand of panic rises in you. “You know, I keep telling you, nena, I can give you plenty of dick the way I know you want, you just gotta ask.” His hands move for the fly of your jeans and you grab his wrists instantly, pulling them away—he slams his giant head forward to head butt you, and when your skull bounces this time your vision goes dim for a few seconds. All the strength is gone from your arms, and your mouth won’t say what you’re screaming out in your head while he unzips your pants. “Jesus, you got a hard head,” you think you hear him say, but you might have imagined it. 

“Look at you! Look at this shit! Not such a macho man after all, huh?” Jerry laughs as he snaps the waistband of your panties. “You shop the same place my sister does, you dumbass bitch!” 

“More ‘f a man th’n you are,” you slur, because you’re that stupid that you need to antagonize your attacker at any given moment. But look, you’ve got your pride about the panties. That was a specific thing, alright? 

“And look at _this_ ,” he says, ignoring you, or possibly just not comprehending you, and pulling your pants down just enough to see your crotch without having to lift your hips. “This pussy is _wet._ What a fucking slut, like you just let dudes put it in you and go home like nothing happened! That’s a slut, girl, like that’s a whore without the money. You _like_ it.” You close your eyes; he’s going to get tired of humiliating you in three, two, two and a half... 

A horrible finger probing its way against the crotch of your underwear makes your eyes open in shock, all ragged edges and forcefulness and your brain is already lighting up with impending horror. It barely gets to the elastic of the leghole before your adrenaline spikes all the way back up, and you glance a punch off his jaw, enough to get him away from you. His arms flail as he struggles to keep his balance on his knees and you lurch upward, a much more focused punch landing right in the kisser. He topples backward, legs unfolding like a lawn chair under him. A string of more uncreative slurs bubble from his bruised mouth, _bitch, maricón, puta, slut, faggot,_ like he can’t make up his mind about whether he wants to put you down as a woman or a man. You sneer as you pull your pants back up and zip them. 

You should run home. You should leave now, run into the old elevator and go up to where it’s safe. 

But you straddle his chest, block his punch expertly when he tries. You probably have a concussion, but maybe so does he now, and you’re better equipped to kick his ass. You punch him in the cheek so hard his other cheek hits concrete, and your other fist delivers more of the same. He chokes out insults against your manhood and you punch him harder, faster, until he can’t say any fucking thing at all. 

_Some_ one’s saying something, though, and you realize it’s you, it’s you who’s yelling _Who’s the man now? Am I a fucking man now, motherfucker?!_ as your fists rain punches on his face. Your knuckles glance off his teeth, crunch against his nose, whip his head every which way. You’re not going to be fucked with anymore. He’s going to learn this lesson, and you’re going to live in fucking peace on your own block the way you deserve. 

It’s only when he stops moving that you pause, the shock of it holding your fists aloft as you stare down at him. His face is a wreck and his eyes are still open enough that you can see them rolled back in their sockets. You hold your hands out in front of you and they’re vibrating like you’re on speed, one of your knuckles split, streaking blood across that hand. Your field of vision starts to expand again and it’s then that you realize properly that no, he’s not fucking moving. You killed him. You killed him. You killed him. He’s fucking dead you _beat him to death—_

Jerry’s chest rises, just that barest bit, under your ass and you let out a long, shaky sigh as you pull yourself to your feet against the wall. He’s alive, more or less. You know he won’t call the cops, no one in his family will; the police would just write it off as gang activity or drug related and send him to jail for being Latino in NYPD presence. So you leave him there with the rest of the trash. 

For a minute you stand outside of your building. It would be so easy to just go up the steps, get into the elevator. Unlock the front door, walk in, laugh off your injuries and say you were dumb enough to fall up some stairs. Wait until midnight to burn every feminine thing you own. Try and be normal. 

You head for the A train walking slowly, hood up to hide the bruises that you know are forming; your eye is already starting to swell. You’re out of fares on your school card and you’re dizzy to try and even hop the stiles, so you do the good boy thing and pay $3.50 for a new metrocard with a single fare on it, although not without fucking up the process a few times and hitting the wrong button because you can’t control where you’re poking. That leaves you with only $1.50 and no way to get home, but you don’t care, you don’t care, you have to get the fuck away from everybody. You manage to pop your earbuds in, the blood on your hands dry enough that it doesn’t make it slippery. 

This far uptown on a Friday night, the A train heading downtown starts off mostly empty but fills up fast. You get off at 59th and stay on the platform, surrounded by laughing, smiling people in heels they can’t walk in and facial hair too big for their young faces. You look grimy next to them, and they can sense it without even looking at you, because nobody stands near you. 

The D train comes and you score a seat in the far corner, hunched over with your bookbag still on your back. Nobody sits next to you, despite the crowdedness. You keep playing the same few Frank Ocean songs on your phone as the train whizzes through Manhattan. The car empties out before you quite make it into Brooklyn, and you turn to brace your feet against the panel attached to the pole, curled into a silent ball of humanity rocked from side to side by the way the train barrels into the next borough. The only time you look up and catch someone looking at you, you glare at them and they look away like you just cursed them. 

Past Atlantic you’re almost completely alone. You want to fucking vanish, because how selfish would you have to be to wish for the rest of the world to disappear instead. If you pull tight enough into yourself you’ll pop out of existence, you’ve seen it in cartoons and you don’t see any reason why it shouldn’t apply to you, too. _Swim Good_ blasts in your ears to block out all other sounds of reality and you wanna swim good, too, you wanna walk right into the water and never be seen again. 

It feels like another era before the D grinds to a halt at Stillwell. You only get up because you don’t want to be prodded by some MTA worker telling you this is the last stop. There’s almost no one else on the platform with you, and you plod down the stairs to the turnstiles. The terminal is so bright and beautiful in daylight, sun streaming through the stained glass images of Coney Island past. At night it feels like you. 

As much as Coney Island is making a recovery post-Sandy, it still feels dead even on a Friday night. There are no big crowds to shoulder past as you head for the boardwalk, head down and hands shoved in your pockets. The boardwalk thumps under your kicks, and you hop the railing to drop onto the sand. And you start walking toward the aquarium. 

No one’s ever really down on this end of the beach, especially not at night, and on this particular night with cutting winds blowing off the water, you’re completely isolated. You sit on the sand and hold your battered head; you’re mostly sure you have a concussion from Jerry throwing you around the way he did. The temptation to lie down and let yourself drift off is strong. 

You wish, for the millionth time tonight, that you had stayed with Karkat. More than that you wish, for the billionth time in your life, that you were a real man, one who didn’t feel stupid inexplicable attachments to the feminine items of the past he wouldn’t even have if he hadn’t been born in this body. The panties against your body feel like a betrayal, lines of fire cutting into your flesh, but you’d have to take off your pants to get rid of them, you’d have to completely expose your godawful lower body to the world and that’s not much better. The blood dried on your hands—both of them, because you didn’t notice Jerry’s blood on your other hand, probably from his nose—makes your fingers feel stiff and crunchy, and it makes you wish you weren’t even a man. You wish you could have been happy as a girl. You wish you didn’t have to think so hard about who and what you are. 

You wish you could stop existing. 

You sit in utter silence for an hour, without moving, barely breathing, and it feels very close. 

Your phone buzzes with an incoming text, and you pull it out of your pocket to glance at it. Rose has texted you ten times, six of those appearing all at once when the train pulled out onto a trestle. They all kind of escalate in anger and use of caps, then morph into worry, then panic. 

But this text is from Karkat, and you open it. He says Rose has been texting him, that she seems very worried; he asks where you are. 

He says _please be okay_. You press your phone to your forehead, a wave of guilt crashing over you—you can’t leave Karkat like that. Even if you don’t want to die, even if all you want is to disappear, you can’t do that to Karkat. You love him too much. You love him. 

Karkat picks up immediately when you call him. “Dave? Where are you?” He sounds frantic. No doubt Rose’s texts have left him with the idea that you’re dying in a ditch somewhere. 

“Coney Island,” you croak, drawing a random swirl in the sand by your knee as you clear your throat. “Near the Aquarium.” 

“Are you okay? The fuck are you doing all the way out there? I thought you were going home.” 

“I just... I ran into some people I knew.” You try very hard to inject some vigor into your words to make the half-lie sound true. “You know.” 

“No, I don’t know, and you sound like shit.” The ocean breeze whistles past your face and makes his voice sound tinny, like he’s calling from another dimension. “You should go home, Dave.” 

“I ran out of money.” The swirl turns into a heart that’s about as empty as you feel, which is a corny thing for you to even think. 

“Then I’m coming out there to get you.” 

“Karkat, that’s gonna take you like two hours.” You fill in the heart in delicate whorls in the sand. “It’s late.” 

“I don’t fucking care what time it is, it could be four in the goddamn morning and I would still come get you if you were stranded on some godforsaken beach where, I don’t know, Hurricane Sandy could come back because she forgot her keys or something!” You can’t help but laugh a little, adding a stubby arrow piercing the heart. The fletching gets messy. “Just sit tight, alright? Like, go sit next to Nathan’s. I’m gonna be there in, fuck, two hours.” 

“You’re unbelievable, you know that?” you say, a smile spreading across your face. 

“And text your sister! Go sit where I told you. And don’t let your phone die.” 

“I’ll play Candy Crush all I want,” you pout. You’ve never played Candy Crush in your life. 

“Bye, Dave.” The call ends. You sit in the sand for another ten minutes, adding totally unnecessary details to your little sand doodle, and then you’re pushing yourself to your feet, brushing the sand off your ass. Nathan’s is still open, but your buck fifty isn’t netting you even the simplest hot dog unless you wanna travel back in time. You’ve got nothing to fill your two hours waiting for Karkat, but you at least text Rose that no, you’re not dead. Where are you? Oh, you know. In Brooklyn. Why? Because you are, that’s why, and could she drop it? No? She says you could have been raped or killed for all she knew. You say you’re still alive. She stops texting. 

You’re trying not to doze when Karkat finally arrives. He speedwalks toward you, and for all that you wanted to be so far away from this life not so long ago, his clucking and worrying over your bruises, his exclaiming over the blood on your hands, you appreciate it. It reminds you that you do belong in this world, despite every attempt to push you out of it. He kisses your shiner, not for the first time, and he doesn’t ask questions when you just rest against his chest, enveloped in his arms, quiet like that for a solid five minutes. 

“You wanna tell me what happened?” he asks your hair. You’re pretty sure you’d be happy just living right here. 

“Not today,” you tell his hoodie. Your ideal weekend would involve forgetting the past few hours even happened, though you know you never will. 

“Alright.” And he holds you longer. 

Twenty minutes later you mumble into his chest, though, because even at your lowest you’ve never been able to keep your mouth shut, and he holds you upright by the shoulders, asking you to run that by him again. 

“I beat the shit out of this dude Jerry in my neighborhood, I said,” you repeat, holding up your ugly knuckles and wiggling your fingers. 

“Is that the guy who did this to you?” Karkat asks, tracing a gentle thumb just shy of your black eye. 

“I beat him unconscious, even,” you add, sidestepping Karkat’s line of questioning. “Guess I’m a real man now, right?” 

He’s actually quiet for a moment, holding both your hands between you and rubbing the tops of them with his thumbs, like he’s really considering the question. “It was rhetorical, donkface,” you say, squeezing his giant soft hands. “I know I’m not really meeting any standards of being a Real Man, capital R, capital M. Not now, not anytime soon.” 

“By those standards neither do I, though,” Karkat replies with a shrug. 

“You have a dick,” you point out. 

“I have tits,” he retorts. “Big floppy ones you could easily put into a bra, like probably at least a B cup. And I’ve never beaten a dude unconscious. Or at all, ever, no beatdowns ever given from these cake-grabbers.” He lets go of your hands just to lift his up as if you didn’t know what he meant by _cake-grabbers_ , and then takes your hands into his again. 

“I think your point got a little lost there, comrade.” 

“I just—I don’t know. You’re a man to me, is all I’m saying, which I guess isn’t even important really so long as you’re a man to you.” A squeeze of your hands. “A cool piece of shit who doesn’t have to beat the living blue horse shit out of other dudes to prove anything to anybody, although that doesn’t mean he can’t beat said horse shit out of said other dudes if said other dudes pull some heinous shit.”

“That’s the sweetest sentence anyone has ever said to me that involved a detailed and totally inaccurate description of fecal matter, I think,” you snort. 

“My pastime,” he says in return.

Karkat comes home with you when you finally do leave, because he doesn’t want you to be alone, and you don’t want him to leave you, either. Rose thanks him for bringing you home like you were a lost dog, and a very exhausted-looking Bro insists that Karkat spend the night, because it’s way too late for him to be going back into Queens alone, so if he could just text his dad, then he can bust out the air mattress. 

Rose looks at you like she wants to cry when you come out of the shower, feeling only slightly cleaner, and once you’re dressed for bed she hugs you like she’s never going to see you again. If this means not having to talk it out, you’ll take it, and you hug her back with these reassuring squeezes like _yeah, I’m alive. I’m good._. 

In the middle of the night you wake to your heart making another break for it, and you pad out into the living room, where Karkat sleeps on the full-size air bed that takes up most of the floor space. You wiggle under the blanket next to him, and although to all appearances he’s dead asleep, he throws his arm around you. Your heart remembers its place. 

It’s going to be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so... yeah. all that's left is the epilogue, which i guarantee you will be uplifting and cheerful. the journey is not 100% over, but it's basically there, and i want to pre-emptively thank all my readers for sticking with me, through my highs and many, many lows. what started out as a simple "i could do that better" response to a popular fic became one of the most important parts of my life, pulling me through at surprising times, and has become so much bigger than i ever expected it to be. thank you, thank you, thank you so much. 
> 
> please, as ever, tell me how you feel. ask me your questions. say whatever's on your mind. see you in a few days for the epilogue, which i hope will help uplift everybody!


	19. epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the end

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know some of you were holding back on reading chapter 18 until the epilogue was up, so here it is. it's still tuesday in california, right? i hope you enjoy this ending!

“Karkat! I refuse to be late!” Kankri’s voice is astoundingly similar to a foghorn as it blasts through the apartment, reaching from the kitchen all the way to your room. “How many outfits could you possibly own that it’s taking you this long to get ready to go? Do you know how long this trip is going to be?” 

“Yes, I’ve made it before, all by myself to boot,” you call back as you check your jeans pockets for everything you’re going to need today—cash, metrocard, phone, keys. Your umbrella is in the front hall, and you remind yourself under your breath to not forget it. You haven’t been getting dressed this whole time, although you admit you spent more time than necessary worrying over the drape of this new T-shirt, dark brown and printed with a name tag that just says _Hello, my name is TRASH BOAT_. It’s Dave’s constant (allowed) groping of your ass that’s slowing you down, as well as his offers to help you adjust your shirt only to put his hands up it, or to use it to pull you down for a quick kiss. When you tell him off and tell him to find his shoes, he jumps back with shrieking laughter. 

“Karkat!” Kankri calls again. 

“You know what makes train rides even longer? Irritating, constant sounds, like the ones that keep escaping that hole in your face,” you quip as you walk into the living room. Dave follows a few seconds later, jogging in as he slides his shades on. It was his idea to wear fandom shirts today, only you don’t know what his is supposed to be—a green shirt with a sword on the front, the word SEPULCHRITUDE scrolling under the hilt. You asked him earlier and he started trying to explain what he termed “weird puzzle shit”. You stopped him right there. 

“Don’t tempt me to make it last a century,” Kankri sneers. And you finally notice _his_ shirt. You point with a _what the hell is that_ and he crosses his arms, but it doesn’t hide the fact that it’s printed with not just La Virgen de Guadalupe, not just Emiliano Zapata, but an Aztec warrior _and_ an eagle holding a snake, all in greyscale except for the golden crown kind of slapped on the Virgin’s head, with _La Reina_ in the ugliest, most illegible script font at the feet of the eagle. It is the single gaudiest thing you’ve ever seen him put on his body, and it’s also like Mexico distilled into a shirt. 

“Look, I don’t say anything about your weird shirts,” Kankri sniffs. “Yours says your name is Trash Boat!” 

“Okay, except that’s a reference from a popular cartoon, and you went from, you know, the way you were, to sudden and obnoxious Mexican pride overload.” You glance down. “And you’re _still_ wearing Tom’s.” 

“They’re comfortable,” he says, turning his back on you. “Get your sun gear, brother, and let’s go already.” 

“You know, I always love listening to you talk, because it’s like getting in a time machine, only without the futuristic, impossible science, and without the presumably high financial cost,” you say. Dave chuckles behind you as you grab your umbrella. Dave swings his like it’s a cane and he’s Scrooge McDuck out for a stroll. 

“Wait!” Your dad shambles from his bedroom just as Kankri reaches for the doorknob, favoring his left side; his hip must be hurting him again. “Wait.” He goes into the kitchen, and pops back out with a beat-up tupperware full of platanos maduros. Dave’s eyes go wide; he even licks his lips.“Don’t you eat those overpriced hot dogs, mijo.” 

“Dad, we can’t take this,” Kankri says, pushing at the container. “Not to mention this is just sugar. This isn’t real food.” 

“This is better food for you than hot dogs and chili fries,” he insists, holding them out again. “If you boys had woken me up sooner, I could have fixed quesadillas de res for you to take. Take this.” 

“I’m not carrying a tupperware box to a parade,” Kankri says, crossing his arms again. 

“Just put it in a plastic bag and throw in some forks, who cares?” Dave says, holding out his hands with grabby fingers where Kankri’s are held up in rejection. “We don’t even need forks. Just put in some napkins. It’ll be fine.” 

“That’s the spirit!” your dad says with a grin, and he roots around under the sink until he whips out a C-Town bag, and gently nestles the tupperware inside with a few evenly folded paper towels while Kankri keeps complaining you’re going to be late. Dave tells him to chill—it’s a parade, not a doctor’s appointment. Your dad hugs all of you, even Dave, and tells you to be safe and stay out of the sun. You tell him you know. He tells you and Kankri both to be nice to each other. Kankri grunts, and you snort, but he takes that in the affirmative and ruffles both your hair. 

The trip is long, definitely, but despite his earlier threats Kankri stays quiet, his side pressed against yours on the ride into midtown. You transfer to the Q from 42nd, and Kankri and your boyfriend sit next to each other until one of those forward-facing pairs of seats open up. Dave practically sits in your lap. Looking at Kankri is weird, because he’s not trying nearly as hard today; if you let yourself forget he’s your annoying brother for just a second, he actually looks like a normal Mexican dude, mean-mugging with crossed arms and all. (If you ignore his ugly cotton shoes, anyway.) You realize he’s mean-mugging at this man who keeps glancing at the way Dave’s decided to hook your fat thigh over his, because your knee is too high for him to comfortably throw his leg over instead. 

It’s a sweltering day in late June out on Coney Island, the sun beating down so hard you and Dave both open your umbrellas as soon as you come out of Stillwell station. It’s easy to follow the crowd toward Surf Avenue, Kankri walking behind you as if he’s some kind of parent figure. Dave carries the bag of food. The parade still hasn’t started, but it still takes you some time to find a place where Dave is going to be able to see what’s happening on the street. You end up two blocks down from Stillwell, toward 8th. 

Dave leans into you as you wait for things to get started. In most respects, that night in May hasn’t changed him; he still likes to be touched by you, and definitely enjoys touching you. He still cracks the same jokes, still rambles when he’s nervous or unsure until he’s forgotten the subject at hand, still dresses eight million times better than you could ever hope to. He jumps at sudden touches from behind, though, and sex-wise, although he says it’s “just for now,” fingering is off the table entirely. 

He loves you, though. He’s told you that a lot, until it’s become a casual thing that devolves into speeches on how gay he is for you. You squeeze his hand just thinking about it, and he fakes nibbling on your arm for a second. “Eat the platanos, if you’re so hungry,” you mumble, scanning the street for signs of life. Kankri fans himself rapidly with an Applebee’s brochure that was forced into his hand. 

“So, City College,” Kankri says, in his godforsaken attempt to be conversational. “Not a bad school, Karkat. Congratulations.” 

“You congratulated me yesterday,” you say. You think the pre-parade vintage car show might be coming up on the horizon. “It’s an alright school, though, yeah.” 

“And you, Dave? Where did you get in?” 

“Hunter,” Dave replies, mumbling just as much. Neither of you particularly enjoy this subject, especially not coming from a Cornell student like Kankri. 

“Ah, both CUNY schools. Well, at least you’ll both be able to see each other, staying in the city—”

“Can we not, right now?” you interrupt, glaring down at your older brother. “Look, I think I see the cars coming up.” You point, and sure enough, here comes the first one. Kankri subsides, thank god. 

The cars are spaced a little too far apart, you think, but Dave enjoys himself, pointing out which ones he’d like to drive even though he has no idea how to drive, and when a particularly sweet pink ride rolls up, he stands on tip toe just to whisper that he wants to fuck you in that one. You hope you can blame the heat on the way you turn a darker shade of pink than the car. He takes a picture of the car before it drives off. 

After that it feels like an eternity waiting for Dave’s sister and her girlfriend to appear in the parade. The entries are spaced even further apart than the cars, to the point where it doesn’t feel like much of a parade at all. Dave says you have to cut Coney Island slack because of Sandy. You begrudgingly agree, but you’re still bored to tears between the truly spectacular entrants. Kankri’s panting like a dog next to you. 

Booming techno music comes first, just the bass first before it turns out to be this ancient Venga Boys number—and it’s Jade first, wiggling in a glittery tight green skirt with long, trailing tufts of a rainbow of tulle in a vaguely taifin-like shape, and a hulking square boombox on her shoulder like you’ve all been transported to 1988. And while her legs and hips are rippling with muscle, her chest is just soft and undefined enough that the starfish-shaped pasties jiggle ever so slightly as she dances down the avenue. Her braids have been re-done with glittering, multicolor pastel yarn woven into them, which swing as she moves. She calls out to Dave with a grin, then to you, and dances up to total strangers on the other side of the street. 

Then comes Rose, and Dave was not kidding about the pasties. She’s as stacked as her brother, if not more, and her seashell pasties are a lot bigger than Jade’s starfish. Her skirt is completely made of tulle, big and full and trailing out five feet or so behind her, and she’s got a shimmering cape attached to batons that she swirls around her to the music. Her hair is as big as you’ve ever seen it, dusted with the same glitter that’s on her skin, making her shine in the sun. That’s probably going to take days, if not weeks to wash out, but it looks great in the moment. 

Dave tries to make his way to the barrier to call out to her, but nobody will let him through, and you hoist him up onto your shoulders to give him the ultimate vantage point. “Rose! Rosaaaaay!” he hoots, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Whoooo! Roooose!” Someone near you shouts for Rose to shake her tits, and Dave uses his new height to kick that dude in the shoulder. It looks like she only heard her brother, though, because she waves with one baton, grinning with wide, excited eyes. “That’s my sister!” Dave bellows, beating his chest, and you have to grip his legs all the tighter so he doesn’t fall like the jackass he is. “Cheer, you motherfuckers!” 

After Jade and Rose pass, though, the parade is still as staggered as ever. You make Dave get down as soon as they’re out of sight so you can both put your umbrellas back up, and not long after even Kankri’s patience is worn thin, and all three of you give up your spot in the crowd to try and wander toward the beach. It turns out the parade route is blocking you at almost literally crossing point, though, and you have to walk all the way to the aquarium to make it to the beach. 

Kankri takes off his shoes and heads toward the surf while you hang back closer to the boardwalk. Neither of you wore sandals, not willing to risk sunburn on the tops of your feet, but it doesn’t stop you from plopping down in the sand and wishing out loud you had a beach umbrella instead of having to hold up your regular ones. You sling yours over your shoulder, the nylon resting on the top of your head, and take the plastic bag from Dave to open the tupperware. It turns out your dad did pack three little plastic forks, like he was hoping Kankri would wanna partake of it, and you stab one slice to hold it up to Dave’s mouth. 

“Your dad,” he says with a full mouth, “makesh the besht platanosh madurosh. Damn.” He’s polite enough to feed you back, at least, before he sets into stuffing his face. 

The surprise of the day is when you spot Gamzee and Tavros on the beach, some fifteen feet away. They’re holding hands, which you did and didn’t see coming, but they never kiss, never show any signs that might be interpreted as even wanting to have sex with each other. Gamzee sees you, too, and he waves, points at Tavros, and gives you a big thumbs up with his free hand. He gestures at himself, then at you with little walking fingers and a questioning face; you motion shooing him. You don’t feel like socializing, really, although you’re glad your friends are finding happiness. 

Dave breaks you out of it by pushing a slice of platano against the side of your closed mouth. “Dude, I’m gonna eat these all if you don’t help me, and then you’re gonna be sad because you’re gonna have to carry me home from being so bloated with goodness. Come on.” You open your mouth belatedly, but it’s too late, because he’s eaten that piece. “I can’t believe those two even happened. Never saw that coming.” He points at them with his fork as they head into the water holding their cheap flip flops, Tavros screeching and laughing as the waves lap at his cargo shorts. Another half-hearted attempt to feed you is made, but this time you get your piece, biting a little too hard around the plastic fork. 

“Yeah, well, we probably look like kind of an unbelievable couple, too,” you remark as you feed yourself for a change. “Look at us.” 

“What, you mean the hot weirdos sitting with cheap black umbrellas in the middle of the beach? I can’t look at us, Karkat, there’s no mirror. Have some sense, man.” Dave really means it about being dangerously close to finishing off the whole batch. 

“You know what I mean.” 

“What I know,” he says, “is that even though it was statistically unlikely we would get together, much less stay together—you know, between your whole mess about your body and trust issues, and my entire disaster area about my everything—I am glad as hell to be part of the weirdest, best couple conceivable.” 

“What a lovely sentiment,” you say dryly, still watching Gamzee and Tavros play in the surf. Not far from them is your brother, who’s been invited to play volleyball, of all things. Even stranger is that it looks like he agreed. 

“What I know is that I love you,” he adds, much quieter this time. “Like, Jesus, it’s cheesy, but sometimes I look at you and I feel like my heart is going to explode because it’s like, overflowing with how much I feel for you.” 

“It is pretty cheesy,” you agree, and he elbows you a little, “but I get it.” You look at him, and his eyes seem so big in that moment. “I’m glad you put up with all my shit, Dave, to get us here. I’m glad I put up with your shit. I’m glad we’re sitting on this stupid dirty-ish beach eating my dad’s cooking, and I’m glad I can tell you I love you without stammering through the whole thing like I’m on like, ten hits of speed.” 

“Yeah,” Dave whispers in return. You lean in just as he does, and kiss under your umbrellas. Until he swipes his tongue between your teeth and your cheek in a completely non-erotic way, and you pull away with your tongue sticking out. 

“You had a piece of platano in your cheek, like a hamster,” Dave says with a shrug, chewing like that’s not totally gross. “I can’t let it go to waste, dude.” 

“I would have eaten it!” you say hotly, giving his shoulder a push, and he lets himself fall over as he laughs. “You are nasty, Dave Strider! You’re a festering, filthy pit of nasty and I can’t be _lieve_ I’m dating you!” 

“Yeah you can,” he murmurs as he rolls back your way, putting his head in your lap. “I’m irresistible.” 

“I know.” You point at where your brother is utterly failing at spiking the ball. “Check that tragedy out, though.” 

“Aw, fuck, that’s not just a tragedy. That’s a catastrophe,” Dave laughs. Somehow they don’t tell Kankri to just go away if he’s gonna fuck up the whole game, even encouraging him to try again, and you spend the next fifteen minutes watching your brother get increasingly frustrated with his lack of athletic prowess and cackling about it. Later you ditch Kankri to find a more secluded part of the beach to make out on, followed by getting the very hot dogs your dad advised against, which is where Kankri finds you, tutting with all his self-righteous might. 

What you know is that Dave is the best thing that’s ever happened to you, and somehow, you’ve managed to play that same role for Dave. It’s not like you’re picturing wedding bells, or growing old together or something like that (except when you totally are), but you can’t think of a single time in your life you’ve ever been this happy. 

And you both deserve it. And for once, you both know it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so... that's it. that's the final, official end of smithybob, and i hope you liked it. i think it's pretty good. i can't believe i made it this far—this fic is almost 100,000 words long, and moreover, it's complete. it's not perfect, and there's plenty i'd like to edit in future, once i've had some time away from the text, but it's complete, and it's real. and to be honest? i wouldn't have made it here without all of you pushing me with your love for the story, and your desire for more. i am so grateful for every reader, every person who reads my work and likes it even a little bit. i am grateful for every comment, for every kudos, for every hit. this fic has been so deeply personal for me, and has become such an important part of my life these past months, and i'm so happy it's impacted as many people as it has, which i see in the comments so often. 
> 
> thank you, thank you, thank you so much. i love you all, and i hope to see you back with whatever my next work might be.
> 
> (p.s. if you would like to see more from me more immediately, i've opened up writing commissions here: http://softurl.tumblr.com/post/69616044739 and would be thrilled by commissions from my readers, especially as it will help keep a roof over my head!)


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